Ward Four
by hundred
Summary: She's been quarantined. He's been made an unwilling hero in the healing world through brilliance and an all-consuming need to take back his old life. This time, however, he's unsure that even the great Draco Malfoy will be able to break through and solve the mystery that's slowly consuming Hermione Granger. DH but not epilogue compliant. DM/HG.
1. Chapter 1: Stubborn

_A/N: __This is my first Dramione fic, so I would really appreciate any feedback. It will take a bit of time to get there, but I promise that there will be romance. It's very important to me that I remain true to the characters, and given that Malfoy is a Healer, it's going to take some background and explanation... Not to mention time for him and Hermione to begin to stand one another in any capacity._

_This will not be fluffy and will have some dark themes. If you want PWP, you may want to search elsewhere._

_PS, as the description suggests, Hermione will be quarantined at St. Mungo's. It will happen soon, I promise. But I also want to note that Hermione _will_ be Hermione throughout most of the story - intellectual, impassioned, grating, etc. She won't be sitting in a bed, unresponsive. I like Hermione's fiery personality and I intend to have it shown. So there's that._

**_Warnings: Copious swearing, sexual themes, mentions of torture and violence._**

_I don't own Harry Potter and I make no profit from this story, it's purely for fun. _

_Onward._

* * *

CHAPTER ONE: STUBBORN

_"I want out, Malfoy," she demanded, panic taking hold of her voice. "Let me out of here _now!"

_He stared at her, the same impassive stare that he always gave her. He stood, biting the inside of his cheek and cocking his head back slightly. "No can do, Granger."_

* * *

_Two Months Earlier_

Hermione closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply.

_There is a Basilisk in my brain. His fangs are sinking in; I can feel them, right behind my eyes. His venom is like a liquid Cruciatus, pulsing… pulsing…_

"Miss Granger?"

Her eyes snapped open, forcing her to look at her ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor who was clad in distinctly un-pink prisoner's robes. Umbridge's mouth was drawn into a tight line, but her nose was sloped upward in an ever present indignation, despite her stark silence.

Hermione took a calming breath and compelled herself to give off a look of poised defiance. "Yes, counselor. My apologies. Could you repeat the question?"

"You are willing to testify that the defendant, Dolores Umbridge, willfully inflicted harm upon the students of Hogwarts and was an active distributer of supremacy propaganda prior to the Second Wizarding War?"

_Focus. Just a few more minutes, then you can lie down..._

"Yes," Hermione replied. She couldn't help the crack in her voice—another wave of pain was rocking through her skull, threatening to bring her to her knees.

"And you will swear to this, knowing that this statement will result in a lengthened sentence for the defendant and any untruths on your part are subject to trial before the Wizengamot?"

"Yes," Hermione said clearly, more firmly than before. Umbridge's eyes narrowed at this and she looked as though she would speak, but she chose instead to tilt her head upward again, ensuring that the only way she could see anyone was to look down her nose at them.

_There is no known cure for Basilisk venom aside from the tears of a Phoenix. Death by Basilisk venom is slow, excruciating, and certain._

"That will be all," the prosecutor from the Wizengamot announced. "Miss Granger, you may step down."

Though she had intended to stay to see Umbridge's sentencing—more for Harry's sake than her own—Hermione clambered down from the witness stand and stumbled as swiftly as she could out of the courtroom and towards her own office.

Shakily, she jammed her key into the lock and barely made it to her chair before collapsing.

_Pain, pain, pain._

She reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and retrieved a thick black potion, unstoppering it with her teeth and pouring the precious liquid down her throat.

She coughed, having swallowed it far too quickly, but the relief was life-saving. The hurt remained, but it was more of a rolling wave than a pickaxe being lodged squarely in her brain. She let a hoarse exhale of relief escape from her as she leaned forward on her palms, massaging her temples with her fingertips.

She couldn't pinpoint exactly when the migraines had begun, but she had started to observe herself meticulously and had determined that they must be stress related. After the War, it was always there. Having to recount the horrors to the courtroom, scouring the country for the Death Eaters that had scattered themselves, trying to pick up the pieces of everything that had been broken; the headaches came, the headaches stayed.

That was almost seven years ago now.

Hermione had struggled and quickly decided that she could not cope with the Auror work that Harry and Ron had taken up with fervor after the War. Though she had received the training and went on for two weeks, it was too much for the witch. She had instead opted for more behind-the-scenes employment with the Ministry, becoming a legal advocate for underserved witches and wizards. She helped the homeless, the sick, the muggle borns displaced by the War.

It was a good career for her. Magical law had made good use of her tenaciousness and thirst for knowledge. She could happily bury herself in a book researching ancient wards and policies for hours on end. The migraines hadn't disappeared, but their stays had become more of that of a distant relative than a full-time roommate. It seemed only when the particularly nasty cases came through—a pureblooded witch being kidnapped and beaten nearly to death by her father for marrying a muggle-born stuck out in her mind—did her mind threaten to explode with agony. That, and when her personal life began to crumble…

"_Mione, don't you walk out on me!"_

Ronald's red ears, a photo of a curly-haired girl that hadn't looked so different from herself, burying her face shyly but affectionately into Ron's chest, his grin against her forehead.

"_Merlin's beard, will you just stop and let me explain?"_

Yes, the pain had been particularly bad then. She remembered less than fondly how she had arrived at Harry and Ginny's and almost instantly emptied the contents of her stomach into the bin, nearly missing it because the pain had almost blinded her.

Not exactly her finest hour.

It was after that she invested in strong pain potions. They didn't solve the problem, but they masked it well enough. She knew that she was being stubborn, but she wanted to figure out her headaches on her own. She was a competent witch and she didn't want to be draining the health system with an issue she could easily quash on her own.

And she had quashed it… Mostly.

Hermione sat up straight and pushed her wild hair from her face, shaking her head slightly. _There's work to be done. _

She pulled out her quill and began writing furiously. Dots were swimming in her vision and her arms felt leaden, but she persisted.

_Knock knock, Hermione…_

Pound, pound pound. She steadfastly ignored it, refusing to give into the pain, although it hadn't been this intense for years.

_Knock knock knock knock knock_

She almost screamed in frustration at her own body's betrayal of her when a magicked note flew to her desk.

_Hermione, justice has been served—Umbridge was given a life sentence._

_Everything ok? Meet me at the café in fifteen._

_Harry _

She smiled to herself at this; indeed, justice had been served, and she had been able to help ensure it. She felt a bit of a swell of pride and decided to spruce herself a bit before leaving the office to meet with Harry—no doubt her hair was reaching critical mass from her tugging at it.

Hermione stood and the pain struck her like lightning, stealing her vision in wisps. She absently felt her shoulder collide with the stone floor, yet she didn't find herself caring.

* * *

There was a popping noise. It was repetitive, almost rhythmic, and it didn't occur to Hermione to open her eyes. The sudden pungent smell under her nostrils quickly changed that.

She gagged as her eyes flew open, instinctively swatting the source away.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," Harry said tensely, setting the awakening potion onto the corner of her desk. "Are you alright?"

It took her a moment to get her bearings and realize where she was. She looked up at her scar-headed friend and smiled dismissively.

"Oh, yes, just must've gotten a bit dizzy," she said quickly, standing and brushing off her clothes calmly. She smiled dismissively at Harry. "I'm fine now."

"I waited for half an hour before I came up here," Harry replied skeptically.

_Gods, when will this pain let up? _

"I'm fine," she said pleasantly, waving him off and plucking her coat from the stand. "Did you get some food? I'd still like to sit down for lunch with you—"

"We're not going to lunch, Hermione," he sighed tiredly. "I'm taking you to a Healer!"

Hermione frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. It's a migraine, Harry, not a brain tumour."

"I don't care if they're just migraines!" Harry snapped. "You've skirted around it for long enough. They don't need to be causing all this grief. There's a Healer specializing in chronic pain, I've called ahead and told them you'll be in this afternoon."

"Harry!" Hermione protested, annoyed that he had gone ahead without even consulting her. "I'm not wasting a Healer's time with a stupid—"

"Just go," Harry interrupted. "This has been going on for years now, hasn't it? Remember the time at mine and Ginny's flat?"

Her cheeks flared red. "Of course I remember," she grumbled, then sighed. "Fine. But let me just go on my own, I'd rather not be accompanied like some invalid. I'm not dying, you know."

"I can live with that," Harry replied, visibly relieved. He pulled out a scrap of parchment from his robe. "This is their floo address. The Healer's name is Pundari."

Hermione looked at Harry warily, tugged the slip from between his fingers and stared at it.

"Okay, okay, fine," she said impatiently, sitting back down behind her desk.

"Do it now, Hermione," he said warningly.

"Yes, _alright_!" She glared at him, marched to the fireplace and threw the floo into the flame, disappearing into the smoke.

* * *

_Gods, _she hated medical clinics. She felt like a specimen under a microscope—no voice, no control. She sat in the examining room, tapping her foot anxiously. The bobbing of her foot rhythmically clashed with the pulsing of her brain.

"You must be Hermione," a tall woman with a milky-coffee complexion greeted warmly, entering the room casually. She had long, thick black hair that fell in a beautiful swoop over her shoulder, and her smile was bright white and dazzling. Though she was wearing a white Healer's coat, Hermione could see the soft curve of her breast dipping into a slim waist. Even her fingers were beautiful—delicate and long, with nails so clean and shiny that they looked manicured, though Hermione knew that they weren't.

The woman was gorgeous incarnate, and Hermione's hair was sticking up on one side as if she'd been electrocuted from being on the floor.

_Fan-bloody-tastic_.

"Yes," Hermione said quickly, subconsciously straightening her spine upon seeing the Healer—perhaps she would look a little more put together that way. "You're Healer Pundari?"

She smiled and nodded, pulling out a chart and placing softly it on her lap, conjuring a quill. For every bit Pundari was intimidating in looks, she was gentle in demeanour. "How can I help you today, Hermione?"

"Oh, it's really nothing," she replied hastily, laughing nervously. "Just little headaches now and then and a worry-wart of a friend, really…"

"Okay," Pundari said impassively, writing carefully on the chart. Hermione wished she could see what she was jotting down without having to crane her neck. "Headaches can be a nuisance, though, can't they? Perhaps I can fix you up with a potion, just in case."

Hermione smiled awkwardly. Pundari obviously saw right through her, but had the graciousness to give Hermione some relief without having to admit that she had sought help.

"Um, I suppose—yes. Just in case," she answered, hoping that her eyes were communicating her thankfulness. She hadn't realized how much she was dreading a confession of how she was suffering and needed someone _else _to help her because she was too incompetent on her own.

"Of course," Pundari replied kindly, replacing the chart to her desk and standing. "Would you mind lying back so I can examine you?"

She nodded uncomfortably and shifted down onto the examining bench, letting her back settle on the plastic cushion. It felt clean without being institutional, and she forced herself to breathe out as Pundari's gloved hand came to her forehead and pressed slow circles into her temple with her fingers, following it with her wand.

Hermione winced involuntarily and barely concealed a gasp of pain.

"How long have you been getting these headaches, Hermione?"

"Erm…" Hermione squirmed a bit, squinting in concentration, trying to block the hurt. "Several years, I suppose."

Pundari nodded, apparently deciding that Hermione didn't need lecturing about delaying treatment. "And have you tried any generic pain potions?"

"Yes, of course," Hermione answered quietly. "They haven't been very effective, though."

Pundari was now frowning in concentration, her fingers moving with their gentle pressure down to her neck. "The pain's quite unbearable, isn't it?"

It hadn't been a question; more of a statement. It startled Hermione a bit and she could only manage to nod. Pundari sighed and sat back into her chair, grabbing the chart again and scribbling, her arched eyebrows pulled together and her mouth set in a straight line.

Hermione sat up and waited for Pundari to finish writing; she couldn't help but drum her finger on her knee.

"Okay," Pundari sighed again, though it was an exhale of concentration. "Which potions have you been taking, and which have been the most effective?

Hermione rambled off nearly a dozen different potions, only two of which had made any difference whatsoever.

Pundari nodded and watched Hermione carefully as she spoke, muttering an incantation and allowing her quill to jot down Hermione's words for her.

"Has the pain been limited to your head?"

She paused for a moment to think. "Well, when it gets bad…" She trailed off, not wanting to divulge everything to this stranger, no matter how kind she seemed.

"It's okay, Hermione," Pundari said encouragingly, easily transitioning from her mode of concentration back to the role of the kind, gentle healer. "There's no sense in suffering when there's something to be done about it, right?"

"Um, well, when it gets bad, it's really my whole body, and I get a bit disoriented… Sometimes I pass out," she said quickly, humiliated by the confession. She knew anyone would tell her otherwise, but she was admitting weakness. Why couldn't she just figure out this damn thing on her own?

On the other hand, it felt like someone was jamming a nail into her eye socket, so perhaps she needed to acknowledge that she could be at a slight intellectual disadvantage.

"Alright, Hermione," Pundari began, "from what you've told me, the standard pain potions haven't worked for you. The ones you've been relying on—"

"Promote disconnect between bodily perception and conscious feeling, yes," Hermione interrupted. "Not generally used because they make your body feel like it's all pins and needles, and you have a delayed reaction to stimuli."

"Very good," Pundari mused, an impressed smirk forming on her lips. "I'm going to try something if it's alright with you. At best, it'll calm the pain, and at worst it will do nothing. Is that okay?"

Hermione nodded and tried to ignore the nervous kick in her stomach.

"Okay, I'll just need you lie back again," she instructed, and Hermione obliged, though somewhat hesitantly. "I'm going to perform a few spells and I just need you to tell me if you feel anything—tingles, pain relief, that sort of thing. I'm going to start now."

Pundari began murmuring incantations that Hermione didn't recognize, then she stepped back and watched.

"I need you to tell me everything that you're feeling, Hermione."

At first she felt nothing, but a sort of haze crept upon her.

"I feel—foggy," she said, confused. "Disoriented, maybe."

The quill scratched away independently as Healer Pundari observed Hermione carefully, her eyes sharply focused and her wand held up, apparently enforcing the spell.

"Has the pain changed at all?"

"No," Hermione replied quietly. Suddenly, her muscles began to tighten and she could not control it. "It's—it's making my body tense."

Pundari's eyes narrowed. "_Tense_?" She repeated, but before Hermione could answer, she jerked forward involuntarily, her legs seizing upward, sort of curling into a ball.

Upon the movement, Pundari immediately released the spell and Hermione fell back, exhausted.

"I apologize... That's not a regular reaction to the spell. Are you alright?" She asked. Her expression was once again one of calmness, but Hermione didn't like the confusion in Pundari's eyes.

She nodded, having gained back control over her body. Her heart was hammering away now, but at least the pain hadn't worsened any.

"I'm sorry if I've alarmed you," Pundari assured her quickly. "It doesn't mean that you're in any danger. All that your reaction tells us is that your pain is not due to a biological issue or a typical magic imbalance, which can also cause migraines."

"Oh—oh, okay," she stammered, forcing a smile. "Well, what do we do next, then?"

"'We' don't do anything," Pundari replied. "What you're experiencing doesn't meet the criteria of any of the known chronic pain disorders, which suggests that it's more complex than just magical imbalance or biological predisposition. I would _suspect_ that it's an interaction between those things and something that you were exposed to earlier in life—an errant curse, botched potion, maybe a cursed object—especially given your involvement in the War. However, I don't have the expertise or training to treat you, or even diagnose you properly."

Upon seeing the alarm on Hermione's face, Pundari laughed kindly and squeezed her arm reassuringly. "Don't worry. I wouldn't be a good Healer if I just sent you on your way, would I? There's another Healer in the clinic who specializes in complex conditions and curses. He's quite brilliant—I promise you'll be in good hands."

Hermione smiled weakly, all of the blood in her face draining away. She mentally cursed Harry for forcing her here—the pain was manageable, she would have been fine without all of this poking and prodding and uncertainty.

Pundari stood, telling her that she'd fetch this other 'brilliant' Healer. She knew that it really wasn't that bad, but she had liked Pundari, and it was hard to find a Healer that didn't put her on edge... Even if Pundari was treating her a bit like a child.

The new Healer came into the room facing away from Hermione.

"I'll let you know, Seema, thank you," he called to Dr. Pundari in a voice…

_That voice!_

The Healer turned and Hermione didn't bother trying to hide her shock.


	2. Chapter 2: Confused

_A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed, favourited and followed. I'm really pleased that this is getting a response already. I would love to hear what everyone's thoughts are!_

_ps - I feel like it's probably necessary to warn you all that I'm going to be taking some liberties when it comes to magic and spell interactions. I know that bothers some people, but the story simply will not function unless I bring in some of my own rules about how spells affect wizards. I _am _trying to make it as logical as possible (in my opinion, at least), so hopefully that will help if the idea doesn't sit well with you._

* * *

"_You!_" She shrieked.

A smirk graced his lips, and she realized his appearance hadn't changed much from school. He _had_ filled out a bit, though—no longer the tall and skinny ferret, this was a man standing before her, with broad shoulders and a subtle shine of confidence in his eyes. He wasn't warm like Pundari had been, (_not in the least!_) but he wasn't outwardly rude like she had known him to be.

"Interesting," was all he said as he sat himself down in Pundari's chair, his gaze trailing her up and down. It wasn't in a leering way—as far as she could tell, anyway—but she felt mortified all the same.

"I want another Healer," she blurted immediately, stepping back from her ex-classmate.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows but didn't scowl like she had expected. "There's only me and Healer Pundari at this clinic. In fact, it's lucky you came today, I'm only in on Tuesdays and Sundays."

"Then I want Pundari back!" She nearly shouted, not even bothering to hide her disgust and enduring grudge for the blonde.

Malfoy looked at her again, his face a clean slate devoid of any emotion. Even if he mostly looked the same, things had certainly changed in seven years. The permanent sneer was gone and in its place was a poker face worthy of a trophy. He scanned her chart over and sighed.

"Pundari doesn't treat complex disorders," he said passively, "and it would appear you have a complex disorder, Granger."

Hermione scowled. "It's a bloody stress reaction, Malfoy—"

"It's _Healer _Malfoy now, if you're going to refuse to address me by my first name," he interrupted coldly.

The commanding force in his voice took her off guard and she winced a bit. The action didn't go unnoticed and he looked at her with grim solemnity, sighing.

"Look, Granger. I realize that we have history, but I'm a professional. I take my job as well as my patients very seriously. You are welcome to go to another centre if you wish, but I would appreciate it if you'd at least give me a chance to help you." He tried what he must have thought was a smile, but resembled more of a grimace. "Please."

"I don't think so," Hermione replied waspishly, sliding from the bench and heading towards the door. She knew she was being immature, but she didn't want to be here as it was, and _Malfoy _as her Healer_?_ Not a chance.

How in the _hell_ did Malfoy get to be a Healer, anyway? Self-preservation and a lack of compassion weren't exactly a recipe for a brilliant bedside manner.

"Granger, wait—"

_Pain. Pain everywhere, behind my eyes, in my lungs, pounding, pulsing pain. _

Hermione dropped to her knees and cried out, half in surprise at the sudden agony. The tile was cool on her hands, and her head was swelling, swelling—

* * *

"Hermione!" Draco called out, reacting quickly and threading his arm around her chest to prevent her from face-planting on the ground. He pulled her back in a swift movement and tucked his other arm under her knees, hoisting her onto the examination bench.

_Fuck sakes_, he thought furiously. _As if having her _here _wasn't enough for one day… _

The witch was drunkenly holding her head in her hands and moaning in agony. She hadn't fainted, but he could _barely_ call her conscious. It was obvious that her awareness was totally lost to the depths of pain.

"Granger, I'm going to give you a potion that should help, alright?" He told her, quickly shutting off any emotional distraction. Any consideration of who was on his table was lost now—all he knew in that moment was an immediate problem that required an immediate solution. He _accio'd _one from his personal stores across the hall and uncorked it with his thumb.

He stepped towards her and pulled her to a sitting position so he could help her to drink the potion and she retched up, spilling not only on herself but all over his robes as well. He paid no attention and continued uninterruptedly to bring the potion to her lips, though she was shaking her head furiously through her moans, absolutely delirious from the pain.

He growled in frustration and managed to prop up his knee behind her to hold her up so that he could free his other hand. He grabbed her chin with it and held her as gently as he could while keeping her still. Finally, he was able to tip the liquid into her mouth, and as he did, she began to slump against his knee and her gasping breaths relaxed.

* * *

As she felt the potion ease down her throat, Hermione began to slide back into reality. No concoction had ever worked so quickly or _effectively _to quell the pain. Distantly, she felt whatever was digging into her back be replaced by a splayed palm that guided her gently upward.

She took the direction and sat up on her own, shaking her head to shake away her disorientation. She rubbed her face tiredly and suddenly Malfoy's face was directly in front of hers, grey eyes boring into her.

"Are you alright, Hermione?" He demanded, not faltering when she moved back a little in discomfort.

She nodded. "Yes, I—whatever that was really helped."

"If I take my hand away, are you going to be able to support your body on your own?"

She flushed with embarrassment at the realization that it was _his _hand on her back. She jerked forward to be rid of it. "Yes, I'll be fine," she said quickly.

He nodded and finally relented in his interrogation, leaning back from her and walking to grab his wand off the counter.

To her overwhelming horror, she noticed vomit on his white Healer robe. She looked down at herself and saw it there as well.

Malfoy acted oblivious to her discovery and silently _Scourgified _both of them.

"Oh my god," she groaned, though he didn't look up as he began scribbling furiously on Hermione's chart. "I'm so sorry—Merlin, I'm so embarrassed, I'm sorry…"

His eyes flicked upward, and if he had been disgusted with her like she had expected him to be, he was doing a swell job of hiding it.

"Don't be," he said seriously, and his eyebrows rose up as if to exaggerate his words. "You had absolutely no control over it."

She nodded, but continued to feel completely mortified.

"How is the pain now?" He questioned, once again absorbed in her chart. She was taken aback by his professional manner in spite of their sordid history. The way he was acting now, it was as if she were a complete stranger. His cold demeanour peeked through, but his usual condescension and callousness was notably absent.

"It's gone," she replied with a bit of surprise. "Nothing has ever made it go away, fully."

He nodded and continued scratching the quill across the paper with a slight frown. After writing what seemed to be a three-act play, he stopped and tapped the chart with his quill, making both of them vanish with a _pop_.

"So what would you like to do now, then?"

She shrugged uncomfortably, avoiding his unnerving gaze. "I won't have you as my Healer, Malfoy."

He sighed, a bit of frustration leaking into his breath. "Fine. I'll transfer you to another clinic, though I don't think they'll have the resources to figure out what's wrong with you. Do you consent to having your charts released to another Healer?"

"I'm not going to anymore clinics," she replied evenly.

Malfoy's composure finally slipped for a brief moment, though he was more incredulous than angry. "Are you _mad_, Granger? You obviously have a very serious issue here!"

"No, what I _have _is a stress disorder that everyone is taking far too seriously," she snapped back.

"Stress disorder," he repeated, failing to cover his disbelief. "You realize that not two minutes ago you were practically having a seizure on my examining table?"

"Yes, I can recall, thank you," she replied coolly.

"Look, Granger, what's probably happening is—"

"'Likely an interaction between regular issues and something that I was exposed to earlier in life—an errant curse, botched potion, maybe a cursed object?' Yes, so I've heard," she stated calmly. "But you're both wrong."

"Why would you assume that we're wrong when two highly accomplished Healers came to that conclusion within minutes of meeting you?" His voice was unnaturally polite, and to her surprise the question was genuine, not rhetorical.

"Because you know nothing about my history! It doesn't make any sense, _Healer _Malfoy," she barked disdainfully. "You think that I haven't looked into that possibility on my own? Tell me, have you ever heard of someone touching a cursed object and having _no _immediate reaction whatsoever?"

He hesitated. "That doesn't necessarily mean—"

"As for the botched potion, again, reactions are usually immediate," she plundered on. "And from the time I left Hogwarts until the end of the battle, I didn't consume anything that wasn't self-made or prepared by a member of the Order. Anything that we picked up, I used a revealing charm on."

She could tell that he was struggling not to glower at her.

"And as for the curse idea, it's possible, but I was never hit with a spell that I didn't recognize. None of it was serious Dark Magic."

"You know that spells aren't always apparent, Granger—"

"I also know that there is no Dark Magic that presents itself only when the target is emotionally taxed!" she countered, annoyed. "If you do, feel free to enlighten. The only common denominator between all of these episodes of pain are that they happen when I'm upset or overwhelmed."

"How do you know that it's not the other way around? That you're becoming stressed because you're feeling ill?"

"_Because_," she seethed, "I pay attention. And I specifically remember that I only began getting headaches _after_ I found out that Ron—"

She snapped her mouth shut, embarrassed. Malfoy had no doubt read about her and Ron's breakup, but she wasn't going to feed his superiority complex over her by admitting that she had gotten publically humiliated in one of the most personal ways possible.

She heard a scritch-scratching noise from behind her and Malfoy winced a bit.

She whipped around and saw that her chart had appeared behind her and was jotting down every word that she said. She snatched it out of the air and threw it onto the counter before lividly turning back to Malfoy.

"How long has that been recording me?" She demanded, seething.

He shrugged a bit sheepishly.

"That can't be legal!" she protested. "You can't just record what I say without my permission and without informing me—"

"Of course it's _legal_," he replied in a slightly bored tone. "By coming into this room, you give your legal permission for me to collect information that I feel is related to your health, so long as you freely give it and I keep it confidential. You know that, Granger, you're a lawyer. _And,_" he pressed on calmly, ignoring her scowl, "you were telling me quite freely. I feel it's important to your clinical picture."

She glared at him but forced herself to remain composed. Though he was still technically working within the 'professional' guidelines, she could feel old Malfoy beginning to show. Oh yes, he might be _acting_ like he was just trying to help her, but she knew that a major part of his interest was to be able to prove her wrong, to show that he was smarter than she was. She wasn't surprised. People like him did _not _change.

She told herself that she was not overreacting and that her read of the situation was completely accurate, it had nothing to do with her own feelings towards the situation or past experiences with Malfoy.

_It's got nothing to do with it!_

"Well, I won't give you anymore of my _clinical picture_, because I'm leaving. But," she continued on, her voice unwavering, "I would like a prescription or instructions on how to brew the potion you gave me."

"Absolutely not," he replied firmly, dismissively. "It's irresponsible to prescribe you a potion without knowing what it could be doing to you. If you'd let me examine you, I would be able to determine what the root of all this pain is and you could be _done _with it."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him defiantly. "No. And if you won't give me a prescription for it, I still won't go to another clinic. I _detest _being here and I'm smart enough to figure out what's going on without your help. Believe it or not, I've handled much worse things than a little headache, _thank you very much_. I've managed without your potion for seven years now. I can continue to manage."

Malfoy gave her a long, hard stare. Finally, he backed off and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly between his forefinger and his thumb. He snapped his wrist to the side, wand moving with it. A bottle shot towards him and a he caught it in his hand.

"I want you to sign that you've acknowledged the risks of taking this and you've waived my liability."

"Naturally," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. Inwardly, however, she was bursting with relief that he was giving the potion to her without forcing her to take further medical treatment.

"One full mouthful when you feel an episode coming on," he instructed, making sure that she was meeting his eyes and she understood. "This is only three doses. If you run out, I won't give you anymore until you've agreed to be examined. Okay?"

She nodded. She wasn't exactly eager to compromise with a Malfoy, but she wasn't in a position to bargain, either.

"Okay," he said, blowing out air. He handed the potion to her and she stood. "I honestly don't understand what your aversion is. Healers are _there _to help you and it's quite obvious that you're suffering. I don't get why you think that it's better…" He trailed off and shook his head, raising his hands in surrender as she opened her mouth to protest. "Never mind. You're right, of course. It's your choice and you have every right to it. But if you change your mind, never hesitate to contact me, even if you'd just like a recommendation for a competent Healer."

He flicked up his card, which she took from his fingers hesitantly. She chose not to say anything, just grab up her belongings and what was left of her dignity before she left.

"Aren't you curious as to why my potion worked when none of the others have?" he asked loudly as she reached the threshold of the door. She turned on her heel and stared at him suspiciously.

"It's exactly the same as any other potion for pain," he continued. "The only difference is that I've added a compound that helps to temporarily suppress the effects of Dark Magic." He stared at her and raised his eyebrows. "You'd be wise to take that into your considerations, Granger."

She felt her mouth fall slightly, but she turned back without replying and continued to the floo grate. She chose not to acknowledge the growing knot of dread that was festering in her stomach.

* * *

_PS - I know that Hermione is being stubborn almost to the point of ridiculousness in this chapter, but keep in mind that a) she doesn't trust Malfoy b) she's scared because of what's happening to her and c) she's angry that she hasn't been able to solve things on her own. _

_We'll be getting Draco's take on things and some of his history in the next chapter._

_Please review =]_


	3. Chapter 3: Avoidance

_A/N: Wow, thank you guys for all of the feedback/following, I really hope that I can deliver! ... I'm a bit nervous, to be honest. But you guys are awesome ;D_

_This chapter is mainly background. It doesn't explain everything, but it gives you an initial idea of what's happened to Draco to make him a Healer. Large blocks of italics represent flashbacks._

* * *

_Pain with stress. Unresponsive to pain potions. Full-body reaction to a rebalancing charm. Dark magic likely._

He growled and tapped the end of his quill on the parchment in agitation. It didn't make sense to him.

_Everything _made sense to him.

Granted, he was working with next to nothing for information thanks to Pundari. Everyone may disagree with him, but in his opinion this all just went to show that being gentle didn't get you anywhere. He knew that she wouldn't have told Granger that her problem could be serious, probably out of some misguided notion that saving her patient worry would do her well in the long run. So she likely told her something ludicrous, like her response to the charm was a bit out of the ordinary rather than being not only an extremely rare but also _nonsensical _reaction—which it was. Magical rebalancing charms had nothing to do with the body. Their only purpose was to restore proper equilibrium in a wizard's power, which could have become irregular after excessive spellcasting or duress. The fact that her muscles reacted to the spell could only mean that there was something that had penetrated her tissues.

But even then, it didn't make sense. Whatever was afflicting Granger—which he was _convinced_ was some form of dark magic, even if neither of them recognized what kind—reacted in a way to expel the rebalancing charm. That simply did not happen. Even the most intricate dark spells that Draco had come across would just give no response at all to a rebalancing charm.

He sighed and cracked his knuckles. As much as he hated puzzles being left unsolved, she had refused his care and he was relieved to see the back of her, truth be told. He was the utmost of professional at all times—_all times, Malfoy? Let's not forget the past, now_—with his patients, but she rattled him. It was abundantly clear that the girl could hold a grudge and she didn't intend to relent on that. And the examination that was required for her symptoms would have been intimate…

And bloody uncomfortable. For both of them.

"Draco?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin. _Christ_, Pundari was so meek—she could sneak up on Mad-Eye Moody without getting caught. How the hell had she gotten into his office without making a single sound?

"Yes?" he asked, trying to cover up his reaction by refusing to look up from the chart that he was currently poring over. "What is it?"

"How did it go with Granger? Did you find out what was going on?"

"How do you _think_ it went, Seema?" he snapped, spinning his chair around to face her. "You could've at least given me a warning."

"What do you—" she started, but realization dawned on her and her hand moved to cover her mouth. "I didn't even think—I always forget about…" She trailed off and shrugged her shoulders helplessly, looking like she had just bitten into a lemon.

"About me being a former Death Eater?" he questioned, annoyed. "Funny thing to forget, considering that it's the sole reason I'm standing here."

"I'm sorry, I should have put it together," she apologized quickly, but he waved her off with his hand and stood.

"It's fine," he muttered. "I suppose that I should be grateful that you forgot. It would certainly be a nice change if that was the case for everyone…" He breathed out heavily and ran his fingers through his pushed-back hair. "No. I didn't find out what was going on."

"Well, other than giving a follow-up owl, there's not much we can do, then," Pundari sighed, then she looked up at Draco quite seriously. "And by the way, it _is not_ the sole reason that you're standing here. You've come up with more innovations than any other Healer at your age. You can't tell me that there isn't a bit of passion behind that."

"Passion's got nothing to do with it," he replied indifferently, studying his fingers. They were calloused from his constant wandwork; rough and dry from the hundreds of_ scourgefi_es he used every day to prevent infection. "I can assure you that without coercion from the Ministry, Healing would have been the _last _career choice on my list."

"Whatever you say, tough guy," Pundari muttered sarcastically, smiling playfully. "I'm heading out for dinner at Redde, want to join?"

"Can't," he said ruefully, pulling his wool coat from the back of his chair and shrugging it over his shoulders. "Shift starts at St. Mungo's in an hour."

It wasn't technically a lie. He did have a shift, but it was on-call and he hadn't been owled. They always owled, though, and he didn't see the point in postponing the inevitable. More importantly, he had this niggling suspicion that Seema was starting to fancy him, and he didn't want to encourage it. She was strikingly beautiful, kind, gentle, forgiving, and had a fuckload of galleons to boot—perfection embodied.

Naturally, then, she was all wrong for him. Draco was like a beautiful trinket that didn't quite work. He may have appeared to check off all of the requirements—brilliant, successful, handsome, excellent bedside manner—but in reality, he was all fragments, a bunch of pieces that might have formed a whole, except that they didn't quite fit together. Seema was too complete for him… Not to mention that he found her unremittingly soft demeanour incomprehensible. He just did _not_ understand the woman.

He walked out to the reception room and helped Pundari into her own jacket. It wasn't out of affection, just habit—almost a reflex when he was with a woman that held any level of respect.

Old pureblood mannerisms died hard.

"Such a gentleman," she teased. "Have you ever thought about cutting back your hours to a near-regular level? You are allowed to have free time, you know. You're only twenty-five years old… in case you happened to forget."

He laughed a bit at that and shrugged his hands into his pockets, where his fingers met cool, smooth metal. "Next time, Seema. Promise."

She flashed him a dazzling smile and waved goodbye before disapparating. He fingered the platinum cigarette case in his pocket and steeled himself to resist.

_You're wrong, Seema. Free time only leads to poor decisions. _

He couldn't afford to make any more.

* * *

"_Bring in the Malfoy family."_

_Draco walked in, his mother and father flanked on either side of him. Their wrists were all chained; he and his father had the extra privilege of leg shackles, forcing him to shuffle awkwardly to the sentencing bench._

_He had never been so fucking _humiliated _in his life. _

_His mother, the angel that she was, had saved them from indefinite imprisonment from Azkaban by lying to Voldemort to save Potter. Obviously, that hadn't been enough to grant them immunity—from the Wizengamot or the public. They were apprehended immediately following the War and were one of the first to stand trial._

_The miserable wets from the Prophet_ _were blinding him with their cameras. _

"_You may be seated."_

_He complied quickly and tried to ignore his own discomfort. The chain connecting his hands and feet made it difficult to sit. Typewriters were clicking away all around him and they began with all the preemptive legal bullshit, which he chose to ignore. _

"_We will begin by addressing the lot of you before individual sentencing," the judge said in a distinctly disdainful tone. He gave the impression that he would rather be pulling off his own fingernails than addressing them. "The Wizengamot has deliberated and recognizes that your family did indeed defect from the Death Eaters prior to the end of the Second Wizarding War, and in doing so, helped to ensure Voldemort's demise."_

_There was a murmur of dissent, and Draco had to literally bite his tongue to keep from shouting at all of them._

"However_," the judge continued steadfastly, "the involvement of the Malfoy family in the War cannot be overlooked. Therefore, after careful consideration, we have decided that the Malfoy assets shall be frozen and full control will be given to the Ministry of Magic."_

"_WHAT?" Draco bellowed, but his mother's look had silenced him before the judge yelled at him to 'control himself.'_

"_As I was saying," he muttered brusquely before raising his voice authoritatively, "control will be given to the Ministry of Magic. The Malfoy Manor shall remain in your possession, as well as all possessions in the house that are deemed not to be connected to dark magic. The family shall be given a stipend of one hundred and fifty galleons per month from their personal assets, which is more than enough to cover basic food, transportation, and clothing costs. The hold on assets will remain for ten years, at which time the Wizengamot will reassess your case based on your behaviour and progress. If at that time they determine that you have shown true repentance, the assets will be released to you in their entirety."_

_It felt like the floor had fallen out from beneath him. A hundred and fifty galleons a _month_? That was _Weasley _money! How in the hell were they expected to have any semblance life with such a ludicrous—_

"_Narcissa Malfoy," he said, clearing his throat. "Because of your role in Harry Potter's survival and because you were never officially sworn in as a Death Eater, your only punishment is ten years' probation. During that time, your wand is subject to random checks and any infraction of the law, especially pertaining to Dark Magic, will result in a full trial before the Wizengamot."_

"_Thank you, your Honour," Narcissa said quietly, meeting the judge with clear, crystalline eyes. _

_Draco's heart was hammering. He would be next._

"_Draco Malfoy."_

_He was sweating, losing his fucking mind. He didn't care what it was, he didn't want to hear it._

"_Your crimes include attempted murder, conjuring Dark magic and being an affiliated Death Eater. These are serious crimes, Mister Malfoy. However, we recognize that you were indoctrinated with supremacist beliefs at a young age—" the judge glared pointedly at Lucius, who continued to look firmly at the wall with his lips pursed into a thin line—"and that there was a level of coercion fueling your actions as your own life was threatened. Therefore, your punishment is five years of mandated service to the wizarding community and lifetime probation."_

_Draco nodded, signaling his understanding. He could feel a muscle going in his jaw and he wondered if his teeth would break from the pressure._

"_Richard, would you please explain to Draco his expectations for service?"_

_A vaguely familiar looking man stood from the Wizengamot bench with his hands clasped behind his back. _

"_Mister Malfoy," he began. His tone was just as unkind as the judges' had been. "It is easy to underestimate the true _impact _that Dark Magic has on its victims."_

_Condescension was dripping in the man's voice, and Draco glared at him in utter contempt._

"_What were the curses that you used _personally, _Draco?" he questioned bitterly. His eyes were bloodshot and Draco was confident that if the man's hands were visible, he would have seen them shake. "The Imperius? Memory modification? I hear that you cast a good Cruciatus."_

"Enough_," the judge snapped. "Get to the point, Diggory."_

_Diggory? Surely not—_

"_Apologies, your Honour. We have decided, Malfoy, that your service will take place under my supervision at St. Mungo's. You will be tending to our emergency patients, most of whom are victims of curses and dark potions. You will aid in cleaning, wound dressing, and providing emotional support for patients and their families. We hope that exposure to these poor souls and their suffering will teach you the _error _of your ways."_

_Despite himself, Draco's mouth fell open. He then squeezed his eyes shut and fell back into the seat, softly hitting his head repetitively against the wall in disbelief._

Bollocks.

* * *

Hermione heard the doorbell ring, but she chose to bury her head under her pillow. Her head was still doing a number on her, but she didn't want to use up any of the precious liquid Malfoy had given her unless it was absolutely necessary. She would run out of it too quickly.

Running out meant another meeting with the ferret.

"Hermione!"

Harry's voice was muffled by the door, but he continued to knock incessantly. She groaned and nestled deeper into her comforter, tucking it around her ears to shut out the rest of the world. After a few moments, the faint noises stopped, and she felt safe to untuck herself.

There was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and a mop of black hair directly above her face when she pulled the blanket down.

"_Harry_!" she shrieked, bolting upright. "Don't _do _that!"

"You weren't answering the door," he said simply, shrugging. He had evidently grabbed an apple from the bowl on Hermione's kitchen counter and he bit into it contentedly, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at her.

"By all means, make yourself at home," she grumbled, mussing her bird's nest of a head of hair.

"I didn't get a chance to catch up with you during the week," he explained, ignoring her. "How did the Healer's go? Did you get any help?"

"I'll tell you how it bloody _went_, Harry," she snapped, "I had Draco sodding Malfoy trying to give me an examination."

Harry stopped mid-bite and looked at her strangely. "_Malfoy_? I thought he worked at St. Mungo's?"

"You _knew_ he was a Healer?!" She demanded indignantly.

Harry blinked. "Of course I know that."

"'Of course'?" She repeated incredulously. "I knew he got a partial pardon a few years ago, but, I mean—I don't know if _you_ recall, Harry, but he was a good-for-nothing _Death Eater _who crushed your face with his boot in sixth year!"

"Yeah, well, apparently being a Death Eater did him some good. He's an expert in treating damage caused by Dark Magic," Harry replied, only slightly fazed by her outburst. "He's head of Ward Four at St. Mungo's, Mione."

She gawped at him. "_What?"_

"This is hardly novel stuff," Harry countered a bit defensively. "Where have you _been_? He's been in the Prophet dozens of times."

"I don't read that rubbish," she breathed, glaring venomously, "I stopped after a particularly endearing headline. What was it, again? Oh, I remember. '_War heroine devastated by Weasley's new stunner, _desperate_ to regain his affections.'"_

"Skeeter at her finest," Harry muttered sympathetically. "It _is_ our only source for news, though."

"I'd rather go uninformed," she replied crisply, crossing her arms and glaring at nothing in particular.

"Anyway, that's not the point. Did he find anything?"

"You think I let him _examine _me?"

"Oh, come on," Harry scowled. "I'm not exactly fond of him either, but obviously if he's gotten this high up he's able to keep himself under control."

"I don't care if he's keeping _under control_," she hissed. "He's still the same prat underneath all of it, even if he's coming off as professional!"

"Why are you being so stubborn about this?" he snapped, finally losing his temper. "You are _sick_, Mione, and it's not just going to go away, even if you keep denying it!"

"I am not sick!" she cried, and her cheeks flared red as she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She rubbed at them with the back of her hand, refusing to meet Harry's eyes. "I don't need anyone's help. Especially not _his_."

"There is _nothing_ wrong with needing help," he said firmly, pulling Hermione into his chest and rubbing circles on her back. "I'm worried about you. I don't want anything to happen to you. Will you please go back? It doesn't have to be Malfoy."

She sniffed. "I'll think about it."

"Thank you," Harry said in an exhale, relieved. He stood. "I'm going to make some tea. You get dressed and then we'll go have lunch with Ginny and George."

* * *

She _would_ think about it, she told herself, she just had to have a bit of motivation first. Theoretically, it shouldn't be too difficult to replicate the potion. If she couldn't do that, then she might consider going and seeing another Healer.

Maybe.

She had been in the Auror's apothecary for _hours_. She could have used the Ministry's, but she had permission to use this one and the stores were so much more comprehensive. The Ministry's were constantly under-stocked.

She couldn't tell purely by smell what Malfoy had added, which made it much more difficult. She had to make a huge batch of pain potion and portion it out, adding the most logical compounds to each and testing them. So far, no luck.

_Damn him, maybe he's bested me in potions after all._

She was adding murtlap essence out of desperation (she knew it worked primarily for skin injury, but it was worth a shot, anyway) when the door opened. She didn't look up—lots of people had come through—but the voice caught her off guard and caused her fumble with the beaker and let it fall to the table, shattering.

"Mione? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, hi Ron," she gasped weakly, turning to him. He looked concerned.

"Hey, let me help you with that—"

"No, no, it's fine," she said lightly, vanishing the mess with her wand. "What brings you to the apothecary?" she asked in a forced casual voice.

"Veritaserum," he answered darkly. "Trying to get a lead on Dolohov."

Hermione blanched. "I thought he was dead? Died on the run, didn't he?"

Ron shrugged noncommittally and she shook her head vigorously, trying not to allow herself to become upset. She moved to begin putting her ingredients away, but Ron caught her arm.

Her heart jumped.

"What's all this?" he asked curiously, but his voice was also cautious, just as it always was with her.

"Nothing," she replied quickly, moving past him and hastily shoving the bottles back into the cabinet. Her hands were shaking, and she dropped another bottle. She closed her eyes, opened them again, and calmly vanished that mess, too.

"Whoa, whoa," Ron said, sprinting over to her and helping her store the ingredients. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, Ron," she muttered back, beginning to lose her patience and her nerve. She was acutely aware at that moment how uncommon it was for the two of them to be alone together, even though they saw one another quite often through Harry. She put back the last of her equipment and pocketed Malfoy's elixir. Ron's eye caught it and he frowned.

"Prescription pain potion?" he asked, scanning the label. His voice was low and he looked at her worriedly. "Hermione, tell me what's going on."

"It's not any of your business," she replied firmly. She blew out air and ignored the twitch of pain that went down her spine and she tried again, smiling pleasantly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean be so rude. It's nothing to be worried out, I'm just trying to figure out how to replicate a potion so I… Can…" _How does one phrase this without sounding like a drug addict?_

Rather than admonishing her for messing with medicinal elixirs, which most everyone knew could be extremely dangerous, he continued on with butting himself into her affairs. "Well, maybe I can help, I've gotten a lot better with potions in the past couple of—"

"Don't worry about it," she said airily, shutting him down as quickly as possible without being impolite. The ache in her brain that had been only pulsing had now moved up to pounding. "Anyway, really got to be going. Take care, give my best to Sarah!"

With that, she disapparated and emptied a mouthful of Malfoy's concoction down her throat. As soon as she did, she swore loudly and mentally cursed Ron for showing up and setting her off.

Only two doses left.

* * *

_A/N: More Draco/Hermione interaction soon, I promise. Please review!_


	4. Chapter 4: Logic

_A/N: Most chapters won't be this long, but I couldn't find a good place to split them._

_Everyone's past is part of the package for this story. Sorry if it's not your cup of tea. _

* * *

Patients in, patients out. Death. Healing. Management. Cures.

Fundraisers. Wining and dining. Nights spent alone in bed… Or maybe not.

Monotony.

He was bored. It was probably wrong to think so, but he wished that his patients would be a bit more… _Interesting_. He had dealt with this sort of restlessness before—though _dealt with _would probably be a generous description—but he didn't like it. It left him questioning the meaning of his days and what his direction was, if he had one at all. Basically, it left him feeling maddeningly lost.

When faced with the instruction to report to a hospital every morning for his foreseeable future, that wasn't one of the problems he had anticipated. Whining patients, contact with… _fluids_, failure and the subsequent sentence in Azkaban—these were his worries. If someone had told him that challenge and personal fulfillment would eventually near the top of the list, he would have laughed in their face.

_And yet here we are. _

He levitated the case file into the cabinet and he sucked his teeth with his tongue. He looked into one of the drawers and pulled out a chart, thumbing the edge of the page and reading it for the umpteenth time. He almost had it memorized; the patient was a small, niggling annoyance that was always in the back of his mind. It was unsolved and, most frustratingly, it was interesting. He didn't like that he couldn't get the case out of his head. He didn't like that he couldn't get _Hermione Granger _out of his head.

He didn't like that one bit.

* * *

"I _hate_ this part of the job," Ron moaned, throwing the stack of papers back onto his desk and mussing his hair, plainly irritated. "They didn't put this into the description for being an Auror!"

"Agreed," Harry sighed, not taking his eyes from the masses of text in front of him. "But we have to explore every avenue. Dolohov's the biggest threat that there's been in years and we can't take any chances."

"If he's even alive," Ron grumbled lifelessly, now hitting his forehead against the desk.

"Three sightings in Bulgaria would suggest that he's alive," Harry replied tiredly, finally tearing away from reading. He sat back in his chair and took his glasses off to polish them.

"Yes, well, his _dead body_ would suggest otherwise," Ron mumbled. His head was still on the dark wood, his nose squished against it, and he was pulling at his red locks.

"Faking a dead body can be done. It'd be difficult, but Dolohov was one of the best and it's a damn good way to get bounty hunters off your back." He blew out air, wiping his spectacles with his shirt before replacing them on his face. "You know it's possible. If you start underestimating them, they'll start wreaking havoc."

"I'm not underestimating him!" he practically wailed. "I know just as well as you do that he's probably in the U.K. as we speak. I want to catch him. I _don't _want to do all this BLOODY READING!"

Harry chuckled a bit and looked out the window wistfully. "Cheers to that, mate. Sometimes I really wish that Hermione'd stayed on as an Auror."

Ron finally sat up with an uncomfortable look on his face. "How is Hermione?"

Harry shrugged. "Why?"

"I saw her a few days ago," he muttered. "She was acting… Weird."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "No offense, but that seems pretty par for the course with you two."

Ron rolled his eyes and scoffed. "I don't know what she bloody _wants _from me—"

"She doesn't _want_ anything from you," Harry said bluntly. "That's sort of your issue, isn't it?"

Ron glared at him. "It's been five years. You'd think that she could move past it by now."

"You'd think that _you _could move past it by now," he pointed out, folding his hands over his stomach calmly.

"I'm not asking her to take me back," he shot back defensively. "I love Sarah. I just… She was our best friend. I thought we'd get through it. I _wanted _to get through it."

"She's still _my_ best friend," Harry amended. "And get through what? A breakup? Definitely, if that was all that it had been. But it was the lying and public humiliation and the general bastardry on your part that got her."

Ron leaned his face into his hands. "Harry, I was twenty years old. I was young and stupid." He moaned and then sighed too, just so that his exasperation couldn't be mistaken. "You're never going to let me forget it, are you?"

"Absolutely not," Harry said firmly, but a sly smile was creeping onto his lips. "You seem to have selective memory when it comes to these matters, you see."

"Oh, shut it," Ron scowled. "_Anyway_, before you had to read me the riot act for the four hundredth time, I didn't mean Hermione was acting regular weird. She was really jumpy and out of it… And she was trying to brew a pain potion for herself."

"She _what_?" Harry demanded before growling in frustration. "Why does she have to be so bloody stubborn?"

"Never could figure that one out myself," Ron muttered, and then he shook his head quickly. "What do you mean, though? What's all this about?"

Harry hesitated and clicked his tongue for several moments. Ron raised an eyebrow and stared at him with a _'well, get on with it!' _sort of expression and Harry slapped his hand against the edge of the desk.

"She's been sick and she refuses to go to a Healer to get it sorted," Harry explained tiredly.

"Sick?"

Ron looked worried.

"She's getting those headaches again," Harry informed him, and Ron's cheeks took on a bit of a red tinge. "_What_?" He demanded breathlessly.

"I didn't think those were real," Ron admitted sheepishly. His fingers were going a mile a minute fumbling with each other. "I thought she just used that as an excuse when she didn't want to… Well, you know."

"You thought she was putting on a show for almost six months after you two broke up, then?"

"I wasn't _exactly _in close contact with her at that point," Ron replied waspishly.

Harry nodded at this, conceding that Ron did, for once, have a point. "Whatever. It doesn't matter anyway. I'm going to get her to give up her pride and have herself evaluated _properly_, even if I have to pry her away to do it."

Ron nodded. "Seems to be the only effective way of getting her to act according to reason in these types of situations."

Laughter swelled up from both of them, but it did nothing to dissipate the fog of concern that was clouding between them.

* * *

"Hermione Granger!" the Healer greeted enthusiastically. He was broad and had a scrubby red beard, with a vague sort of Weasley look about him. "It's a pleasure! What can I help you with?"

"Um…" She looked around the waiting room pensively. If anyone hadn't recognized her already, they certainly did now. "Would you mind if we stepped into one of the, uh…?"

"Of course! Totally mindless of me," he laughed, ushering her into an examination room and shutting the door rather abruptly behind him. "Long day, I'm sure you can understand. So what's the problem, Hermione?"

"Just been feeling generally unwell," she fibbed. "Aches and pains, mostly."

"Mmm, mmm," he nodded, holding his chin and staring at her intently. "When did this come about?"

She hesitated. "Well, it's been on and off for several years—"

"_Years_?" he asked loudly. "And you're just coming in _now?_"

_Only because Harry Potter is an insufferable nag._

"I _did _see another Healer about a month ago," she huffed defensively. "I just didn't feel like he was… Addressing my needs correctly."

Read: _I'm out of his sodding potion and he won't give me any more._

"Say no more," he said understandingly, and then he clapped his hands together. "Well, I'll do my best to ensure your needs are met, sound fair?"

"That sounds excellent," she sighed. "He did tell me that he thought it had something to do with Dark magic…"

The Healer, who Hermione realized never did give his name, drummed on his knee with his fingers and clicked his tongue all while frowning. "Mind if I do a few diagnostic spells?"

"Of course."

The Healer did something similar to what Pundari had during her first appointment. He stared and tapped his lips with his finger, thinking.

"The usual signs of Dark magic aren't showing up. Did this other Healer say anything about biological cause?"

"He… Seemed pretty confident that it wasn't entirely biological." Hermione's palms began to sweat and she suddenly wanted to leave.

"Okay, so here's what we can do," the Healer said firmly. "I take it by your being here that traditional pain potions haven't done the trick for you. I'll give you a renewable prescription for a stronger dose. This should help to make your symptoms much more manageable, but I'd recommend you see a specialist."

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "What specialist?"

The Healer took out a referral form and began filling it out. "Healer Malfoy is the best in the business with these sorts of disorders, as I'm sure you've heard."

She sucked in her breath and pulled the referral form from him, shoving it into her bag. "Of course," she said a bit tightly, unable to force a polite smile like she wanted. "I'll see if I can manage to work my schedule with him. In the meantime, you can give me the prescription?"

"I wouldn't dream of sending you off empty-handed!" he chuckled, though she didn't quite see the humour. He pulled off a pre-signed prescription note from his pad—something she found more than a bit disconcerting—and handed it to her. Without any instruction or preamble, he stood and smiled broadly at her. "I would _love_ to stay and chat—I can't believe I'm missing an opportunity to speak with _Hermione Granger_—but duty calls, patients to see. Stay in touch, Hermione!"

He left before she could say goodbye.

* * *

She only had to take the new potion once before coming to a firm conclusion: she would _not _be taking her second dose. Hermione was willing to put up with fairly severe side effects if it would stop her pain, but whatever the Healer gave her crossed the line. Everything from her tongue to her toes felt numb and she didn't feel coherent enough to even floo over to the Burrow for lunch with Molly and George. She wasn't in much pain, but she may as well have hooked herself up to an IV drip filled with moonshine.

It didn't matter anyway. Slowly but surely, she was making it back to being Hermione. In a couple of weeks' time, she wouldn't even need the potions. The pain was gradually subsiding and was mostly limited to her head now, which she could manage with. Therefore, when her eyes met a familiar grey set at the Ministry, she was only marginally tempted to beg.

"Malfoy," she greeted, bowing her head a bit in acknowledgement. She had expected just a passing hello, but to her surprise, he stopped and seemed poised for conversation. Taken aback, she continued on awkwardly, grasping at straws for something to say. "You're dressed up."

He smirked a bit. "No need for Healer's garb when I have to spend my day filing paperwork for the Ministry," he replied lightly, motioning to his tailored charcoal suit with his hand. He slipped his hands into his pockets casually and appraised her. "How have you been, Granger?"

Before her visit to Pundari's clinic, she had seen Malfoy half a dozen times since the war and had never once been in close enough proximity to necessitate speaking with him.

_I guess you're just lucky. _

"Good. Busy," she answered impersonally. He nodded with his light eyes still on her and she squirmed a bit under the scrutiny, anxiously tucking an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. "How are you?"

"I meant how have you been _feeling_?" he corrected, his voice casually hushed, his demeanor professional and relaxed.

"In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't your clinic," Hermione replied matter-of-factly, but not unkindly.

"In case _you _hadn't noticed, you look like you've been dragged through hell and back again," he stated bluntly, "if you don't mind me saying so."

Hermione glared incredulously, her cheeks now afire. "And what if I do mind?"

He shrugged a bit disinterestedly, now studying his nails. "Just stating facts."

_Once a prat, always a prat. _

She narrowed her eyes. Malfoy was playing some sort of game with her; she just wasn't sure what it was yet. "I've been to another Healer, for your information."

He waited for her to continue.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "He gave me a different pain potion," she explained, annoyed.

"Without a diagnosis, I presume?" he asked. His apparent ease unnerved her—while her insides were knotting, he stood there calmly as if they were colleagues discussing a mundane bit of news.

Not knowing what else to do, she nodded.

Malfoy sighed with frustration. "Lazy bugger," he muttered. "Do you have it with you? I'd like to take a look, if it's alright with you."

Hermione looked up at him, finally being the one to establish eye contact. She hesitated for a moment. _He isn't exactly being unreasonable, is he_? She couldn't tease out any possible ulterior motives on his part, so she fished out the vial from her satchel and relinquished it to him.

He took it and rolled it in his hand, squinted at the label and suddenly erupted. "_Sixty _milliliters?" he demanded incredulously. "No. Absolutely not. You couldn't weigh more than ten and a half stone _sopping wet!_ That's_ way_ too much for your size!"

Hermione's cheeks flared red, but he seemed not to be paying attention, nor did he seem to abide to the women and weight taboo.

"I want you to stop taking this immediately," he instructed, his eyes locked on hers. "I'm surprised that dose hasn't laid you horizontal yet."

She didn't bother to tell him that it already had knocked her on her ass or that she had chosen to eschew the pain reliever. "Does that mean that you'll give me more of your magical elixir?" she asked with just a touch of sarcasm.

"Are you telling me you're willing to let me examine you?" he countered without missing a beat, matching her tone of voice precisely.

"No. I've already said that I won't."

"Then I can't give you anymore. You've run out?"

She ignored his question. "You're not exactly in a position to be telling me to throw away my prescription, then, are you?"

He bit the inside of his cheek and pondered for a moment. "I apologize. I've overstepped and I don't have any right to be asking you all these questions or telling you what to do."

"So why are you?" She questioned earnestly.

"Honestly? Because I find your case intriguing," he replied seriously. "And whether or not you choose to believe it, I do care about my patients and their well-being."

"But I'm not your patient, Draco."

His eyes flicked back to hers, his attention apparently piqued by her use of his first name. "No," he agreed slowly, shaking his head. "The offer is still open."

"I need to be going," she said awkwardly, stepping back. "Thanks, I suppose. For checking in."

Hermione turned, but she could feel his stare on her, locking her gaze back to his like an Imperius curse.

"Please consider it, at the very least."

She swallowed heavily and nodded before breaking away and quickly striding back to her office.

* * *

_The offer is still open…_

Hermione spread the _Prophet _articles across her kitchen table. Strictly speaking, you weren't supposed to take clippings from the archives, but really, she was just borrowing and they would be returned soon enough. _Nothing wrong with that_, she assured herself.

Before she had resorted to bits of newspaper, she'd managed to ascertain that Malfoy _was _the head of ward four, just as Harry had said. She also learned that Malfoy had been given several achievement awards, which was unheard of for a Healer his age. But being Hermione Granger, she needed all of the information before she could make any sort of decision.

_If you'd let me examine you, I would be able to determine what the root of all this pain is and you could be _done _with it._

Not that she was planning to go to him. It just seemed prudent to do a bit of research in case she needed a Healer in the future. Which she wouldn't.

If mentions in the _Prophet _were anything to go by, Draco Malfoy was a prolific individual. For the sake of organization, she chose to go chronologically.

She skipped over the first fifty or so, which had been published before the war and were more than likely accounts of how famous and rich and powerful he and his family were. While she relished the thought of having a written account of the Malfoy's being pompous snots, Hermione wasn't interested in that just now.

_"Malfoy Family Sentenced"_

Two months after the War. Narcissa was sentenced to ten years' probation, Draco to lifetime probation with five years' community service, and Lucius to two years' house arrest followed by ten years' community service and lifetime probation.

Hermione could only forgive the words on the page because of Narcissa. Without her, Harry would be dead. She had to remember that. Narcissa's role was more important than Lucius', so the sentence ought to reflect that. It was only logical.

_I'm sure the muggle borns that died by his hand would disagree…_

She shook her head and scanned the rest of the article, the only thing of any significance being that the family assets had been frozen by the court. _Healers make awfully good money, don't they..._

_Draco Malfoy Attacked at Tavern?_

_Rumor has it that Draco Malfoy was at the heart of a altercation at the _Toadstool_ yesterday evening._

_The heir of the disgraced Malfoy family emerged from his home this morning with bruises and cuts along his face. Sources report that he had been drinking heavily_ _when he was approached by a battle of Hogwarts survivor. Apparently, heated words were exchanged between the two before an all-out brawl erupted. According to the source, Malfoy became 'rigid and unresponsive,' refusing to throw even a weak punch—maybe because it would have violated the terms of his probation, or perhaps because he was too ashamed of himself to put up any defense._

_He refused to comment when approached by the _Prophet_._

Hermione set that one aside with a feeling of unease. She couldn't make heads or tails of the story, especially when the author was Rita-sodding-Skeeter. Probably best to bin the whole thing with such a biased reporter behind it.

_Youngest Malfoy Embraces Community Service_

_It seems that Draco Malfoy is intent on leaving his old life behind. Six months into his mandated community service at St. Mungo's hospital, the youngster is turning heads in a very positive way._

_"He's definitely excelled so far," Niklas Friedmann, a senior Healer on Mungo's emergency ward, said of Malfoy. "Draco has a lot of potential. He's really impressed me with his work ethic and his intelligence." _

_So much so, apparently, that Friedmann has decided that Malfoy is capable of more responsibility and has hired him to work as an apprentice Healer. In order to fulfill his sentence following the Second Wizarding War, this work must be in addition to the volunteering Draco already does at the hospital, meaning that the young man is packing between fifty to sixty hours a week on the ward._

_ When asked how he was dealing with the time commitment, Malfoy simply shrugged and said that he "enjoys the work."_

_The positive attention will likely be a welcome change for Draco, whose family has been grappling with their ex-ties with the most notorious group in recent history, the Death Eaters…_

Hermione didn't bother finishing what was written and she cast it into her growing 'read' pile. The next few were similar praises of Draco, with small additions of the work he was doing. Malfoy seemed surprisingly shy of the cameras as well as the reporters, often giving answers that were only a few words. The photos of him were often a quick wave with a polite (but uncomfortable) smile before he stepped out of view from the camera or looked away.

She couldn't help but roll her eyes at how the papers seemed to fawn over Malfoy's apparent 'reformation.' Hermione couldn't deny that he had changed, but this was just _ridiculous_. Clichéd phrases like "rising above his licentious upbringing" and "a beacon of hope for the broken youth of the Second Wizarding War" were strewn about generously.

That is, up until the article that Hermione didn't know she had been hoping she wouldn't find.

_'Once a Death Eater…': Malfoy Facing Wizengamot for Supremacist Slur_

_Reports are surfacing that despite his apparent progress, old habits and old beliefs die hard for Draco Malfoy. While servicing a patient at St. Mungo's, the apprentice Healer lost control with one of his patients. Richard Diggory, one of two acting supervisors at the St. Mungo's emergency department, was present during the incident._

_"A terrible shame, but unfortunately, it appears that once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater," Diggory told the _Prophet_. "The boy's actions speak for themselves. Malfoy acted violently towards a patient and called this patient a quote 'filthy mudblood.' This transgression cannot be tolerated, particularly from someone who already possesses such dark history."_

_No one asked your opinion, you filthy little mudblood._

Hermione swallowed heavily and suddenly realized that her mouth was dry. She closed her eyes and breathed, Malfoy's words bouncing around in her head.

_Can people really change?_

She set the clipping aside, but away from the others. She was tempted to stop there, but she was curious how Malfoy could have not only recovered from that little slip up, but somehow rise to be one of the most respected Healers in Europe just five years later.

A few articles after (detailing how he'd gotten a slap on the wrist for his outburst and how he was generally staying out of trouble), she seemed to get her answer.

_Draco Malfoy's 'Oblivation Therapy' considered a Medical Breakthrough_

_Draco Malfoy is being hailed as a hero for his creation of what he calls 'Oblivation Therapy.' The treatment restores the memory of obliviated witches and wizards, a feat that was previously thought to be unachievable through humane methods._

_The breakthrough has been 'life-saving,' according to individuals who have lost all or part of their memory. According to the mastermind behind the procedure, the inspiration for Obliviation Therapy came about through painful personal experience._

_"One of our patients in ward four had her memory completely erased," Malfoy said when the new treatment was announced. "She was eleven years old and she knew nothing. The charm had been so extensive that she couldn't even retain any new memory. It was horrific. I started thinking of how it could be reversed. I was taken back to somewhere I didn't want to go—back to my roots and my life when it was immersed in Dark Magic—but ultimately, it was what needed to happen."_

_Sound cryptic? As much as he wanted to forget, Malfoy had learned much from his experiences as a Death Eater's son. During that time, he found out that the only known way memory charms could be reversed was with the Cruciatus curse. Of course, patients could never be subjected to torture just to retrieve memory. The Healer had his work cut out for him. So how did he do it?_

_"It seemed like the Cruciatus was an unavoidable piece," Malfoy explained, "so I needed to find a way to work around it. I figured that if the patient was in some sort of semi-conscious state, the pain might not register. Through a lot of trial and error—not on patients, mind you, though sometimes on myself—I was able to develop a drought that put the user into a controlled coma. While under the influence of the potion, they are not consciously aware of the pain caused by any curse, including the Cruciatus. We administer very brief, controlled bouts of the curse until the memories are recovered, which can take anywhere from one to eight separate sessions."_

_Due to the potential for harm and misuse, only a handful of Healers with specialized training will be permitted to administer Obliviation Therapy. When asked if the procedure caused discomfort to the patients upon awakening, Malfoy refused to assuage fantasies of a pain-free, quick fix. "There is nothing that can fully mitigate the suffering that comes with the Cruciatus curse. Patients who undergo therapy wake up with considerable soreness and general discomfort, which I've heard described as feeling like you've taken a very potent dose of Skele-Gro. However, our patients are given pain-relieving potions if they wish, and are closely monitored for a period of time after therapy."_

Hermione's pulse was pounding in her ears. Malfoy was trying to pass off the Cruciatus curse as a _cure _for something? It struck her as totally barbaric, and it left her squirming in her chair. How could something that horrific, that _destructive_, how could that possibly—

_The ends obviously justify the means. If it was anywhere near what you've experienced, they'd never allow it in hospitals. They're unconscious, they can't feel it…_

She puffed her cheeks and blew out air, leaning forward to glean through the rest of the newspaper articles. They painted a picture of Malfoy's rise to glory—shortly after the advent of Obliviation Therapy, his patients petitioned to have his sentence reduced to probation only, and they succeeded. Malfoy's remaining two years of community service were cut (though it didn't seem to matter, as he was working full-time at St. Mungo's by that point), and, probably more importantly, the Malfoy fortune was released back to him and his family. After that, Malfoy continued to make innovations in Healing. While none were quite as groundbreaking as Obliviation Therapy, they were enough to gain him international recognition and the spot as head of ward four, the department for spell damage. It housed the most serious cases—naming Draco as the leader at only twenty-three years old was practically unheard of. Since then, it had only been more praise for Draco—no more supremacist slip-ups, no lawsuits, no dissatisfied patients, nothing.

She fell back into her chair and magically assorted the clippings back in order and stuff them into the envelopes they had come in. Without much effort, she began to bicker with herself.

**_He's the best. He could figure out what's wrong with you…_**

_He stills calls people Mudblood!_

**_That was six years ago. People change._**

_Not Draco Malfoy._

**_Are you _****really****_ going to be this petty?_**

_He's using the Cruciatus curse on innocent patients!_

**_Yes, to help them get their lives back!_**

_I don't need his help._

**_Yes, you do._**

She rubbed her temples and stood, heading for her bed.

Snuggling under her duvet, Hermione realized that she was being irrational about the whole Malfoy bit. By all accounts, he was the best in the business for what she needed and he was interested in taking her on.

She sighed and muttered '_Nox_,' resolving once and for all that she would floo Malfoy come morning.

* * *

"I'm very glad that you chose to come," Malfoy said as he entered with chart in hand. He closed the door quietly behind him and all of the noises from the outside world were cut off. He rifled through his notes peacefully, seeming to enjoy the quiet stillness of the room.

She laughed a bit nervously. "I didn't think I would," she admitted. She met his crystalline eyes and they seemed a bit softer than usual—maybe it was a conscious effort on his part to put her at ease. "Honestly, I was a bit scared to."

_What are you doing? Why are you telling him that?_

"No need to be frightened," he assured gently, giving her an encouraging smile. He placed a hand on the examining bench. "Could you please sit up here for me?"

She nodded and slid onto the bench. _Gods, why did I wear a skirt today? s_he thought to herself furiously, crossing her legs. She could feel herself getting flustered, and suddenly she began to wonder if this was really a good idea.

She jolted when she felt Malfoy's hand on her leg.

"Shh," he murmured, his gaze meeting hers again. The eye contact was surprisingly calming and she relaxed again, allowing her head to rest down on the bench. His hands continued to massage firmly over her, his wand feathering her skin behind it.

His touch was colder than she'd expected. Goosebumps erupted where his palms and fingers moved. This was different than it had been with Pundari—Malfoy was not just touching her, he was _feeling _her. The pads of his fingers were reading her flesh while his wand elicited small shivers from her at the lightness of its touch.

Touch turned to grip and soon his hands were clamping over her hard, _too hard_, grabbing, _taking_. He spoke.

"I'll need you to undress, Hermione."

_What?_

"Um, I'm not sure that I'm—"

He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Don't you trust me?" His tone was cool.

"Yes, it's just that I—"

"Good," he whispered, eyes still narrowed.

Straps of tightly bound cord materialized from the bench and snapped themselves over her wrists and ankles. She instantly began to panic and she pulled at them. "What are you doing, Malfoy?"

He tutted at her. "_Healer_ Malfoy, remember?"he admonished mockingly, circling her with predatory—no longer soft—eyes. "Tell me, Hermione, why are you so afraid to undress in front of me? Are you scared that I'll be disgusted with what's underneath?"

"Let me go," she ground out, tugging against the restraints.

"So what ails you, Mudblood?" Draco sneered, leaning over her aggressively with his nose barely an inch from hers. "Is it the filth that poisons your veins?"

She spat into his eyes and she saw a flash of—_what was that?_

Why couldn't she see properly? Malfoy was in duplicate, triplicate, and suddenly she was on the floor and it was black but it wasn't stone—

"_You will pay for that, you muggle scum," _he hissed, but it wasn't his voice, it was distorted, but…

_Whose? Whose voice?_

Suddenly, all of the hurt that she had ever known flooded into her, blinding her and making her writhe there on the ground. Then, as quickly as it had started, it ceased. He looked down at her panting body with a concerned and confused look on his face. There was nothing odd about the way he spoke this time.

"I honestly don't understand what your aversion is. Healers are _there _to help you and it's quite obvious that you're suffering."

Tears were fogging her vision. "Wh-_what_?"

He knelt down beside her and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. He hooked his hands under her underarms and pulled the both of them into his desk chair, so her body was awkwardly dragged up across his.

"_Now, what I am I to do with a Mudblood?" _He asked sweetly. That voice—

_Who is that? WHO IS THAT?_

"Who are you?" she sobbed into his chest.

"_A__ Death Eater," _a thousand voices laughed. He grabbed her chin savagely and forced her head upwards. His grey eyes peered into hers, and when he spoke, it was him again, his voice clear and calm. "Or have you forgotten?"

He pushed her off of him and she fell for miles until she was back on the examining bench and everything was as it should be, with the sterile equipment and the quiet _tick tick _of the clock and Malfoy with his chart.

"It seems you're in need of some therapy, Hermione," he stated matter-of-factly, raising his wand to her throat. "_Crucio._"

* * *

Hermione screamed and sat straight up. Her comforter was scrunched in her hands, which were balled into fists.

_Just a dream. _

She sighed and wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. She hadn't felt fear like this in years. _Primal _fear.

_Breathe_.

She did, and she willed herself not to rehash the dream in her mind. It would keep her from sleeping, and sleep was something she desperately needed right now.

Her headache persisted.

She would deal with Malfoy in the morning.

* * *

_A/N:_ _The 'action' starts next chapter.__  
_

_I find reviews really motivating!_

_Thanks to all of you for reading and much love! xx_


	5. Chapter 5: Scars that don't heal

_A/N: I was so overwhelmed with the response I got for the last chapter. Your comments mean the world to me, and much appreciated to the anon reviewers who I couldn't message to thank. Thank you thank you thank you for your kind words. I hope that I can deliver a good story for you guys!_

_Unfortunately (well, fortunately, really), I'm taking an adventure to Europe this Sunday and won't be back for two weeks. Probably no updates during that time, but I will be brewing and stewing for the next chapter until then, I promise :(_

_I'd love to hear your thoughts! Also, it's really late... Mistakes may have been missed, please PM/review me if you see any and I will attend to them :) _

* * *

The rest of the night was plagued with more nightmares, but these fragments were not dreams—no, these were memories. And that was much, _much _worse. The faces of Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Lestrange and Scabior were frighteningly clear before her and their voices were right there at her ear; she could hear Crabbe screaming the killing curse behind her as friendfyre swirled up in every direction.

They all wanted her dead.

_Wild eyes, blood red lips and clawed fingers._

_A curved wand pointed at her—walnut, 12 ¾ inches. Unyielding. A torturer's wand. Murderer's wand. _

"_What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!"_

When she awoke, there were thin streaks of dried blood across her night shirt. Confused, Hermione began to examine herself to find the source. She pulled up the fabric, and in doing so she turned her forearm over, eliciting a small, broken whimper.

Hermione hastily clambered out of bed and threw her ruined pajama top into the hamper as she strode to the bathroom. Tears were already spilling down her cheeks without permission or effort, and by the time her fingers reached the taps to wrench them on, her hands were trembling.

She twisted the taps to maximum heat and as the steam rose, she slowly turned her wrist upwards to get a full look.

It looked like she'd been scratching herself viciously through the night. Hermione's scar from Bellatrix had been rubbed raw and was an angry red, with the previously faded 'Mudblood' now raised with irritation and blatantly visible. She had to clamp her opposite hand over her mouth to muffle the sob that was ripping through her throat.

She closed her eyes and blindly grabbed a facecloth from its spot on the towel rack before she began scrubbing viciously at her arm, ignoring the scalding water and the sting of her already-raw skin. Fully crying now, she gritted her teeth and shielded the wound from view so that she could search her cabinet for a bandage. When Hermione recovered one, she didn't bother putting on salve or disinfectant—all she cared about was that it was covered. She wrapped the bandage around her forearm quickly and tied it, only allowing herself breath once she had finished.

Hermione took a shuddering inhale and slid down the tile wall, landing in a defeated heap on the floor of her bathroom. She drew her knees into her chest and buried her face away, ashamed of herself for crying, for literally reopening scars that she had begged to close over and for just _being_.

Between sobs, she wondered if this had anything to do with her supposed illness, or if she had finally just lost her nerve completely.

* * *

Draco didn't believe in lucky coincidences; he believed in making them happen for himself. He had purposely filed all of the paperwork for Pundari's clinic himself—usually the secretary's job—for the past two weeks, hoping for a 'chance' encounter with Granger at the Ministry. He wasn't even totally sure what it was he was aiming to accomplish by running into her. It wasn't _exactly _like Draco Malfoy to go chasing after patients, especially ones that hadn't required any follow-up care.

Seema had been gracious enough not to mention his sudden interest in administrative work, but she was a sharp woman and he knew that she saw right through him. He hoped that she wouldn't misconstrue the gesture…

_Don't get yourself into another fucking mess. They don't need even _more _fuel to use against you._

Granger really had looked dreadful, though. It was his personal policy to refuse prescriptions without a full diagnostic, but it wasn't legally required of him. If it was, the healing potion industry wouldn't be the booming sector that it currently was. Healers were doling out stronger and stronger elixirs without caution or consideration for their patients. A few of them had wound up in his care with the telltale signs—shakes, cold sweats, politely asking for just a _bit _more with just a touch of desperation hidden somewhere in their eyes. He wasn't and _wouldn't _be one of those Healers. He couldn't allow anyone, let alone someone he was supposed to be caring for, to slip into that world. He couldn't afford the liability, and it just felt… Well…

_It wouldn't _have _to be that way for Granger, would it?_

Though he didn't like the idea, Draco figured that he _could _give Hermione another dose of the potion despite eschewing an examination. It wasn't ideal, but regardless of her protests to the contrary, it was pretty obvious that the girl was still in a lot of pain and could use relief. If she allowed him to administer it, he could control her intake and limit any risk of overdosing or dependency.

He nodded and snapped his briefcase closed. He could live with that for the time being.

* * *

"I don't feel good about this," Ron muttered darkly. "It doesn't seem right."

"We're still underlings, remember?" Harry replied in a sickly-sweet, mocking tone. "We have to do as we're told."

"Too bad we don't have saving the _entire bloody wizarding world _under our belts," he scoffed viciously. "That might _really_ demonstrate that we might have a clue as to what we're doing."

"We didn't do that alone," Harry reminded him, then he sighed. "But I agree. I don't think that they should be hiding a sighting from the public. I get that they want to limit panic, but how will anyone know to take precautions?"

Ron shrugged and rubbed his face tiredly. "The woman _was _old. She sounded a bit batty. Maybe she just _thought _it was Dolohov; he's not exactly a distinctive type. Dark hair with a bit of muscle? Dime a dozen."

"Hey!" Harry protested, chucking his quill in Ron's direction. The redhead ducked out of the way easily, grinning a bit. "Anyway, you don't believe that."

Statement, not question.

Ron's smile fell and he sat back into his chair. "No. And I don't believe that we should be here, sitting on our hands and waiting for orders."

Harry sucked air into his cheeks. "Well, let's hope the boys trying to round him up know what they're doing."

* * *

Draco chose to apparate a couple of blocks away from Granger's house to avoid alerting her that he was coming. He worried that if she realized who was at the door before she went to answer it, she'd never open it.

He resented how tense she was around him. Yes, it was uncomfortable—probably _more so _for him—but he had grit his teeth and acted professional, and had done a damn good job of showing it. More than that, he'd gone above and beyond for her. As a specialist at Pundari's clinic, he had a backlog of four months. Wizards from all over Europe (and even parts of Asia) traveled just to get an hour-long consult with him. He was on his way out when Seema asked him to take a look, and it was only out of respect for her that he did it anyway.

Just because Draco was a Healer now didn't mean that he'd forgotten about the high value that he had always placed on a Malfoy's time.

And he really _shouldn't _be wasting his only day off to try and convince Granger that his services were worthwhile. He should be freeing his Saturday from work.

_And do _what_, exactly? Allow yourself freedom and you'll only find imprisonment. Or did you forget that, Malfoy?_

The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he trailed towards Granger's place. He was a bit surprised that she didn't live in a flat like most everyone else their age, but she never really was like everyone else, anyway. When he finally matched the address on the card with a house number, he took in Granger's residence.

It was a modest two-story—she could probably afford more on a lawyer's salary, but he presumed that the upkeep was pretty manageable—with a cottage-y sort of charm about it. The house was obviously old, made out of stone and long-aged wood, but she had updated it with little touches like a tin letterbox that had been painted bright red and little glass trinkets that ran along the windowsills.

He couldn't help but smirk a bit to himself. Somehow, the place seemed very Granger—every little piece was perfectly in place, but he would hedge a bet that everything had some sort of drippy sentimental story behind it as well. Hermione Granger was nothing if not predictable; she had been since their first days at Hogwarts.

Therefore, when she only opened the door a sliver and a sliding chain separated their faces, Draco wasn't surprised in the least. Apparently she had been, though.

"Oh!" she said upon seeing him. "Hi, Mal-Draco. What are you, er, what brings you here?"

Amused (but not quite arrogant enough to show it), he wondered if she always seemed this awkward around men.

"I wanted to discuss giving you another dose of my potion. Would it be alright if I came in?"

"Oh," she said again, more quietly this time, looking down at her feet and blinking. She worried her lip with her teeth, apparently fighting internally with something. He stood there patiently, waiting for her to make up her mind. She suddenly snapped her head up and looked at him with a polite smile, but something about her eyes was off.

_Is she already on something?_

"Yes, of course you can—" she stopped abruptly and her cheeks flushed red. "Er, I'm only wearing a dressing robe. Would you be alright to wait a couple of minutes while I go put something on?"

"If it would make you more comfortable," he replied courteously. "But do remember that I work in a hospital. Dressing robes are pretty much all I see, anyway."

She bit the inside of her cheek and hesitated for a moment before sighing and nodding. She closed the door and he heard the chain slide through the lock. She turned the knob again and opened the door, allowing him in past her.

"We can sit in here or at the table in the kitchen," she offered, pointing to two overstuffed chairs flanking—_surprise, surprise_—a massive, fully stocked bookshelf. He told her that the sitting room would be fine and she nodded a bit shakily.

"Is everything alright?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow as he sat.

"Hm?" Hermione squeaked. "Yes, just—I was going to go—my head isn't well today," she stammered out, curling her feet up below her bum on the chair and resting her temples against her fingers. She didn't seem intent on ameliorating her mess of an explanation and her gaze was unfocused.

"Hermione," he said slowly, now beginning to get a bit concerned by her behaviour. "Is it okay that I'm here? You seem very uncomfortable."

"No!"she protested quickly, squeezing her eyes shut and then covering them with her hand. "I mean, yes, it's fine. You wanted to talk about the potion?"

"Right," he answered a bit cautiously. "I'm willing to give you a 48-hour dose if you'll allow me to administer it—"

"So you're just assuming that I want it?"

Well, yes, he was, actually.

"I didn't mean that you had to—"

She waved him off, finally removing her hand from blocking her eyes, which appeared to have aged about ten years in the few moments that she had been covering them. "No, I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous, not to mention rude. I'd be grateful for another dose."

He narrowed his eyes. "Alright," he said quietly, pulling his kit onto his lap and opening it. "Hermione, I need you to be honest with me. Have you taken anything this morning, prescribed or otherwise?"

"What?" she demanded, her eyes widening. "No! I haven't—not even the other prescription—"

"Alright, alright," he said calmingly, raising his hands in surrender. "I have to make sure so I don't create a bad reaction or something. Are you _sure _that you're comfortable with this? I'm here to help, not make you jump out of your skin."

She shivered almost imperceptibly, but she nodded her head firmly. "Yes, I'm fine. I apologize for… This," she sighed, motioning broadly at herself. "The pain's quite bad this morning and I'm not really myself."

She smiled weakly.

"Okay." He pulled out the vial, syringe, gloves and cleansing wipes. "I'm using a longer-acting preparation and it's best delivered intravenously. I'll be wearing gloves and disinfecting the area first, alright?"

She nodded and he stood, bringing his equipment over to her. He slipped the gloves on as per St. Mungo's protocol and she stuck her right arm out for him, but he took her left one up gently instead.

"So your wand arm isn't sore," he explained, rolling up her sleeve a bit. "What is this?"

There was a length of shoddily wrapped bandage near the crook of her elbow.

He shouldn't have done anything; he should have let it go when she jerked back and protested, but something instinctual took over. He held fast on her forearm, not allowing her to move away from him and he tugged the dressing off as gingerly as possible with her trying to wriggle away.

Cuts. Deep ones, specifically concentrated over one area.

_Mudblood._

* * *

"_You_ _are going to break here, boy."_

_ Those were the first words he heard at St. Mungo's._

_ "I'm not counting on it," he'd snarled back. _

_ "And what is it you intend to do here, then?"_

_ Since the trial, Draco had found out that this Diggory bloke was in fact the uncle of Cedric Diggory, the one who'd gotten killed at the cemetery. He had also gathered that this man was not particularly fond of him._

_ "I plan on getting my family's life back, _sir_."_

_ "An interesting choice of words," Diggory hissed menacingly. "Do you think that the ones you tortured will get their lives back? Do you think that the Mudbloods, as you called them, are going to recover from their wounds?"_

_ "I didn't do anyth—"_

_ "That's _shite!_" he snapped. "Every day that you come in here, you will see the damage that Dark Magic has done and you will work your prissy little arse off remedying it. You are a worthless little git and you're going to pay for it. I'm going to personally remind you every damn day of your pathetic life that you _can't _heal the damage that you've caused, and that there can be no forgiveness for what you and your kind have done."_

_ That day, Diggory sent him to tend the wounds of one of the muggle-borns that had been tortured during the Carrows' reign at Hogwarts._

_ He knew the boy. Crabbe had been rather fond of using him for the Cruciatus._

_ Draco's first task for his community service was applying essence of dittany to the cut that roughly read "Muggle" that Crabbe had scrawled into the skin of the boy's forehead._

* * *

If she hadn't been so out of it, she would have reacted quicker. As it was, by the time Hermione was pulling away from Draco, he'd already seen her little first aid job and his grip was like iron.

When he saw the damage that she'd done to herself, he sucked in breath sharply through his nose and held it there as she jerked her arm from his hand and curled it protectively into her chest.

They were both silent for several moments, and she refused to meet his eyes as she rubbed her thumb over her (re)mutilated scar.

"Granger, you know that as a health care professional, I'm obligated to report actions of self-harm."

"I didn't do this to myself," she breathed hatefully, cutting him off before he could further explain his legal duties. He stared at her, giving a startled look.

"Then who—"

"I mean, I didn't do it on _purpose_," she corrected, "I … did it in my sleep."

Somehow, she had managed to contain the tears that she could feel pricking the edges of her eyes. She was grateful for that—as it was, she already wanted to disappear, and crying in front of Malfoy would make her pray to Merlin for spontaneous combustion followed by a quick death.

"You've been having nightmares?"

Malfoy's voice was surprisingly gentle, though she knew that he wasn't leaving any room for argument in answering his questions.

"I had decided to go to your clinic, but then I had all of these nightmares and seeing the memories, of—of…" She swallowed heavily and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. "And now you show up and I _know _I should just let you help me, but—"

"Stop," he sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "I understand why you didn't want to see me now."

She could tell that he was having difficulty saying that, and she was shocked that the words were even coming from his mouth.

"I'm sorry for pushing this on you; it's obviously caused you a lot of stress. Just let me clean this up and dress it properly, then I'll give you the injection and be on my way. I can try to find a Healer who I think will be able to handle your symptoms as well, if you'd like."

"No," Hermione groaned, and Draco regarded her with confusion. "Everyone's been telling me that you're the one to handle it. I've let this go on too long and I'm tired of being in this haze all the time."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he nodded. "Okay. Since you still seem pretty shaken up, I think it would be better to get your headaches and this wound sorted out for today and then I'll have you in around lunch time at Pundari's clinic for a full examination tomorrow."

Hermione absently chewed at her thumbnail—something she only did when in deep thought—and then she nodded. That sounded reasonable.

He _accio_'d some supplies from his kit and scooped some salve onto his gloved fingers.

"This will sting a bit," he warned, but his attention was no longer on her; his eyes were transfixed on her scratches. He dabbed at them carefully with just his index and middle finger, his other hand cupping the underside of her arm. Once he was finished, he poured a bit of elixir over a cloth and rubbed it slowly over her cuts, massaging where the deepest ones were.

When he lifted his hand away, her skin was unblemished, save for the original scar.

"Good as new," he said, giving his usual polite but disingenuous smile. She wondered if he ever smiled, really. The only times she could remember from childhood were when one of the golden trio had gotten themselves into trouble, or when Buckbeak was getting executed. Didn't that make him a bit of a sadist?

_Oh, come on, Hermione. Stop acting like a child, it was years and years ago…_

"What, you can reverse Obliviation and you can't get rid of a little scar? I thought you were supposed to be a prodigy," she quipped, trying to lighten the tension that had been present in the room. It came out a bit forced, but it wasn't an entirely dismal attempt at sarcasm. She probably needed to practice her 'playful' voice, though. To her surprise (and to the pride of her acting skills), he broke into a full grin.

"How perfectly Granger of you to rifle through my files before you let me on as your Healer," he said smugly, and he even gave a short, rough laugh as her eyes widened in complete embarrassment. Her mouth clamped shut and she could feel her blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

_How could he have possibly known_ _from just saying—_

Her thoughts were interrupted by Malfoy casting a _Scourgify _charm and wiping down her skin with alcohol. "Alright, here we go," he muttered to himself, ignoring her mortification at him calling her out for researching him through the night before. He drew the elixir into the syringe, flicked it to remove any air bubbles.

"Good," he murmured to her as the needle went into her skin and he pushed the plunger down slowly. She wasn't overly fond of shots, but the split-second pinch was nothing compared to her headache.

Almost instantly, a cool smoothness coursed through her veins and her pain began to ebb. She let out a sigh of relief and thanked Malfoy a little stiffly.

"Not at all," he replied tonelessly, vanishing the syringe with his wand and standing to full height. "So can I expect you around twelve thirty?"

"Yes, that's fine." She paused. "Don't you take a lunch break?"

He shrugged, replacing his equipment and closing up his bag. He'd taken out a small scrap of parchment and he grabbed a quill from her desk to scribble something on it. "If you have concerns at _any _time, send an owl to this address. If you need my assistance, you can floo here as well, but only for emergencies. Take care."

She took the paper from him and showed him out. She was a bit surprised that he hadn't asked to use her fireplace to floo home.

* * *

_ I suppose that could've gone worse... Maybe._

He could only describe the way he felt as shitty. Draco hadn't been prepared for the scar. He hadn't even _remembered _that it existed—as if either of them needed a living, breathing reminder of why she hated him in the first place. It stirred up odd feelings in his gut and anxiety at the vulnerability that he had opened up for himself. If he screwed up with Granger, he was _fucked_. She, more than anyone he'd ever treated, would have a solid backing to her case if he accused her of mistreating her or falling back into his supremacist ways.

He shouldn't have put himself out there. Being bored wasn't an excuse for being impulsive. He couldn't _afford _impulsiveness. 'Prodigy' or not, he would always be one slip-up away to being back to living like a bloody Weasley and getting spit on everywhere he went.

Draco was about to disapparate right there on Granger's porch when something caught his eye. It was a stout (and _ugly_) grey cactus—Mimbulus Mimbletonia, if he was correct—but more interesting was the handmade pot that it was in. It too was ugly (it seemed that Granger had little taste to speak of when it came to decorations): a lumpy, bowlish thing, but it had handprints all over it and little coins imbedded in the clay. Under each handprint was a name: _Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, _among many others. Near the bottom, it read:

_Dumbledore's Army never would have survived without you, Hermione. Thank you for your brilliance and your love. Forever yours, the DA_

_(_Below it, in a different cursive)

_The cactus was Neville's idea and Harry/Ron take no responsibility for the stinksap_

He let himself become a bit absorbed in the corny little display and took the time to examine each print and its signature underneath. He wasn't sure why, but he suddenly felt strangely calm.

* * *

Hermione read the address as she climbed the stairs.

_Armand's Landing, Conquest of William (Malfoy Manor)_

_Wiltshire, England_

She pulled a face—what sort of address was that? Granted, it was about as pretentious as she expected for the Malfoy Manor…

_ Malfoy Manor? _She thought, frowning. _Why is he giving me his _home _address?_

She heard a rustling noise and she turned. "Malfoy? Did you forget something?"

A shadow crept from her bedroom, and Hermione wouldn't have even noticed it if it hadn't spoken.

"No," Antonin Dolohov snarled. "But funny, that, isn't it? Never thought I'd see the day when Mudbloods were running to a _Malfoy _for help."

* * *

He nearly dropped the plant when he heard an odd sound from inside. He wasn't sure what it was—probably from the television, he'd seen one in there—but it had almost been like a muffled shout. His eyebrows creased together and he replaced the cactus to its spot on the railing.

"Granger?" Draco called loudly.

* * *

As soon as she'd cried out, Dolohov was on her like wildfire. His gloved hand squeezed painfully over her mouth and she could feel his solid chest against her back, heaving with anticipatory breaths.

"Sh sh sh," he tutted mockingly, crushing his arm over her torso and forcing her back into him even harder. She could feel the tip of his wand roll over the tops of her thighs as he'd grabbed her. "No no no, we mustn't make noise, Hermione. Let's go to the bedroom, hm?"

She nodded quickly, blinking through tears. He either didn't know that her wand was stowed in the pocket of her wand or he didn't think it to be a threat. If it was the former, she had to keep it that way. She would only have one chance to strike at him.

He shoved her roughly into the bedroom and she fell onto the floor, hard. She took one of her side tables down with her, knocking the lamp and a bunch of her books to the ground.

She pushed her tendrils of hair from her face and looked up at her attacker. "What do you _want_?"

* * *

_It's probably nothing. Go home and have a nap like a normal person on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe you could get _really _exciting and take Pundari up on that offer for dinner. Just stop wasting your bloody time on Granger._

Draco clicked his tongue when he received no reply.

_What if she reacted badly to the potion?_

_That _thought panicked him. But still, what were the chances—

There was a crash and the tinkling of breaking glass rose up to the air. He shot back to the door and pounded on it harshly. "Granger!"

* * *

"_I _want justice," Dolohov hissed in reply, kicking the door shut. His hair was a bit matted, his eyes wild. He licked his lips hungrily. "That filthy blood traitor's living in the lap of luxury while I hide in the shadows like a _rat_. And whose fault might that be?"

She backed up against the wall to stand herself up and he lunged at her, wrenching her by the hair so that her ear was on his cracked lips. Her scalp felt like it was being ripped away from her skull.

"_Huh?_" he demanded savagely, enunciating his question with another violent downward jerk of his hand, and she yelped. "I served in Azkaban because of you. I was tortured at the Dark Lord's hand because you went and fucked with my memory, you arrogant little cunt_._ And now the Dark Lord is dead and I'm living off the scraps of the elite that I used to be among. _Whose fault was it, Hermione?_"

"M-mine!" She choked out.

A noise. Dolohov's movements paused. She could faintly hear someone knocking at the door and shouting her name.

_Malfoy_.

Dolohov turned to address the source of the sound and he growled. She took the opportunity and his slackened grip to shove him back while she grabbed her wand and shouted "_Stupefy_!"

He was too quick and he managed to block the spell, but the fight had begun.

He spared no time in getting down to business.

"_VELOCES DIRUAM!"_

_ "PROTEGO!"_

The stream of purple flame rebounded back from her and square into Dolohov's chest. He let out a choking breath and swayed a bit before he crumpled to the ground.

She let down her trembling wand hand and released her breath. Dolohov lay twitching slightly on the floor, glaring at Hermione with murder in his eyes.

_It's over, just get to Malfoy and he can—_

And suddenly she could see nothing and everything was fire and blood and all she could hear was the high pitch of her own scream.

* * *

Draco recognized that particular incantation. Moreover, he knew _exactly _who it belonged to.

He hastily conjured his patronus and shouted that he needed Aurors and transport Healers immediately, and he didn't wait to see it off. He wrenched the door open and practically flew up the stairs and into the only room with an open door, where two bodies lay on the ground, only one fully in view.

Dolohov was emitting a low moan and his veins were becoming a purplish black against his tanned skin. Draco couldn't tell if he was conscious or not. Judging by the fact that he wasn't _dead_, he hadn't been hit with the full force of the curse, only a rebound from Hermione's shielding charm—

_So what had _she _been hit with_?

His eyes shifted to the hand that was sticking out from behind the bed and he scrambled over to her. She was motionless, her eyes glassy as if dead.

He knelt down to check her pulse and was about to shout _"What did you do?" _to Dolohov, but suddenly he was knocked back, clear across the room.

Black dots swam in Draco's vision and it felt like he had been electrocuted and his lungs had had all of the air sucked right out of them. As he tried to stand, he heard several _pops _signaling apparation, and there were multiple sets of thunderous footsteps pounding up the stairway.

The first to enter had a sickly familiar mop of red hair and was garbed in an Auror's robe.

_Of all the _idiots _that could have shown up!_

"Why are you just sitting there?!" Ron Weasley shouted, scanning the room wildly. "Where is—_HERMIONE_!"

"Weasley, _don't—"_

But Ron had already sprung to her side and before Draco could finish his warning, he was trying to pull her into his arms. There was a burst of light and a deafening _bang _and Ron shot back through the air to almost the exact same spot as Malfoy was. He managed to dodge the redhead's unconscious body and he stood in the doorway, blocking entrance for the other Aurors and Healers.

"Get him to St. Mungo's!" he roared to one of the younger looking men, pointing to Dolohov. The boy obeyed immediately and was gone with Dolohov in less than a second. Predictably, Potter was among the troupe, and he was trying to push through to get to Granger; Draco shoved him back aggressively. "_NO, _Potter! You two, get level _six_ protective charms cast on yourselves and put her into isolation on ward four! No one is to touch her without wards, _are we clear_?"

The senior transport Healers nodded, startled, and got to work with their wands.

Potter insisted on trying to shove past Draco, but he held him back forcefully. "You're not going in there, Potter!"

"What in the _bloody hell _are you doing, Malfoy?!" Harry screamed, raising his wand only to have it easily knocked from his hand.

"Her magic is unstable and _extremely _volatile," Draco ground out, managing to shove Harry back so he could make eye contact with him. "You're not getting anywhere near her, she's being taken into quarantine _immediately._"

* * *

_A/N: Oh, dear. Things just aren't looking up for Hermione..._

_PS - _Velocus diruam _means 'swift rupture' in Latin. I had to make an actual incantation for Dolohov's curse (which we've seen used on Hermione and probably Lupin) and to me it seemed like it caused some sort of massive internal damage, so I thought that name worked well for the curse._

_Reviews, favourites and follows are always highly appreciated :)_


	6. Chapter 6: Dealings

_A/N: Everyone has been so kind ;_;_

_Thank you for all of the support for this story! I really am sorry about the delay. Europe was awesome, but left me exhausted... As I am now..._

_This chapter turned out quite differently than I had expected. And for the record, Ron is _not _falling in love with Hermione. I'm not a huge fan of one-sided love triangles and I'm not trying to create one._

_I'm really tired and I feel like I could ramble on forever in explanation of this chapter, but it's probably best to just let you read it... _

_GO!_

* * *

Draco was only vaguely aware of what was happening around him after they left Hermione's house.

Moments before, after he had warded himself to prevent being hurled across the room again (or worse), he'd planted his fingers over her wrist. With the vacant look in her eyes, he was worried, worried that—

No pulse.

No _pulse! _

He'd jammed his middle and index finger rather aggressively into her neck, desperately searching for some sign of life and he felt a very light, slow thumping. Draco let out a hoarse exhale—he hadn't realized that he'd been holding his breath—and was forced to make a decision. They couldn't apparate, not with her magic out of control as it was, but she needed to get to the hospital and she needed to get there _now_. He didn't want to use medi-transport, but in the end, there wasn't much of a choice.

Medi-transport was an outfit similar to the Knight Bus, except that it had basic medical equipment and passengers weren't so susceptible to slam and crash around when the vehicle was turning. He'd only ridden in it during those few times it was necessary to bring a patient from Pundari's clinic straight to hospital, but Draco still knew that it would be difficult to give any productive medical care while riding.

And then there was his slight oversight about casting protective charms _before _they loaded her into medi-transport.

Potter and the other Aurors had been screaming all around him, demanding to know what was going on, and he'd gotten distracted. It wasn't his fault, really. He and the other Healers had temporarily forgotten themselves in the chaos of the situation, what with the sudden appearance of Dolohov and two major medical crises.

They remembered what they _should _have done when the windows of the vehicle exploded out.

Draco had her loaded in and had been about to tell the driver to leave when Hermione's hips had lifted off the gurney as if she were seizing, and for a moment, the gravity in the medi-transport bus was suspended. Then it was like a sudden burst of wind—the windows shattered and sprayed glass out into the street and Draco was hurtled into yet another _very _solid wall. He struggled to pick himself back up as he let out a string of expletives that would've made his mother faint.

The other Healers had to take Hermione out so Draco could cast the protective wards over the vehicle and repair it, which cost them another minute.

Now, Draco was resorting to measures that he _detested_: muggle healing techniques. His comfort zone existed in the realm of magic; the use of all of these devices was completely foreign to him when he entered the world of healing. He'd had to use them often enough when he was in emergency healing to become proficient with them, but Draco had never become one-hundred percent comfortable with any of it. There was no way around them, though.

He placed the mask over Hermione's mouth and nose and began squeezing the bulb attached to it to give her some oxygen. Her eyes were still half-opened and foggy, looking at nothing.

Maybe looking at everything.

Draco slid her eyelids down with his fingers and looked away from her face.

* * *

"Go home, Malfoy."

Draco's head snapped up. The exertion of the simple motion made him feel light-headed; he was exhausted. Twelve hours had turned into twenty-four, and then thirty-six. If he took another pepper-up potion, he risked seeing hallucinations—not exactly ideal when trying to heal.

"I can't," he muttered to his former mentor. "They need me here."

The day of the attack, Granger, Dolohov and Weasley had been admitted. The redhead had been hospitalized for a major concussion—a small price for stupidity, in Draco's opinion. He didn't deal with nonmagical injuries, so he wouldn't see Weasley again until after he was discharged.

Dolohov and Granger were put on ward four. The word 'understaffed' had never even crossed his mind before they were put there. There simply wasn't enough Malfoy to go around—they wanted him on Dolohov, since he at least _had _a diagnosis and he knew the most about _Veloces Diruam, _but he was always called back to Granger, who seemed to be deteriorating by the minute.

_Fucking _Granger.

If he never saw her cursed face again, it'd be too soon. She'd been nothing but trouble for him—_nothing's changed there, has it?_—and now she had the nerve to try and die on _his _table. She was a goddamn plague to him.

That's what he'd convinced himself of, anyway.

She stirred something within him that he had no words for—no word other than _strange_.

Granger had to leave St. Mungo's. She had to be gone.

He would request that her case be taken over by one of the other Healers in ward four, and that was the end of it.

"I'm going up to ward four and _you _are going home," Friedmann replied, and his tone left no room for argument. "Diggory's covering the emergency department and we still have four other Healers and dozens of medi-witches for the floor, Malfoy. And I _know _you know that it's illegal for the hospital to allow anyone to work longer than thirty-six hours. You're required to take at least twelve before you start again. I don't want to see you in here until 3 o'clock PM. Clear?"

Friedmann may have been the only person that Draco would listen to—certainly the only one that he would take orders from. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

"I hate Diggory," he muttered finally, standing to leave.

"So do I," Friedmann agreed, eyeing Draco with approval for being so compliant for once. "Now go get some bloody sleep."

Draco couldn't disagree with that command. His eyelids were pulling down painfully and his hands were stiff with overwork. But…

"Can you let me know if there are any developments?" he asked slowly. Friedmann nodded and shooed him out.

Draco didn't bother changing from his Healer's garb before leaving, and as soon as he was out of the door, the familiar _click _and flash of lights was in his face.

He should have used the damn floo.

"Healer Malfoy, is it true that Antonin Dolohov is in St. Mungo's as we speak?"

"Why was Hermione Granger brought in on stretcher?"

"Will you be her primary Healer?"

"Don't you think that your past relationship with Granger will influence your ability to provide care?"

Their voices all blended and blurred together and he couldn't help himself. He shoved through the first wave, but the reporters were too thick and aggressive and he was trapped. Annoyed, he looked up at them and frowned.

"As a Healer, I am bound to the confidentiality and privacy of any patient," he answered loudly as a hush grew over the mob. "I cannot confirm that either of those individuals are residing in St. Mungo's currently. Those details can only be released by the Ministry. I can assure you that anyone under the care of our staff will receive the highest standard of treatment possible. I won't respond to any further questions."

With that, they hesitantly dispersed enough to let him through and he quickly apparated to his home.

* * *

_"It will get better," said Niklas Friedmann, the alternate Senior Healer on the emergency ward._

_Draco had just finished being verbally castrated by Diggory for failing to apologize to a woman who had been held hostage by Snatchers for her muggle-born status, but as Draco had said, he didn't know why he should be saying sorry. He didn't know the damn woman; he hadn't done anything to her. Surely, he had sympathy for her, but it wasn't his fault that Greyback or some other twat had kidnapped her. _

_Diggory didn't seem to agree. _

_"You just need to keep a low profile for a while," Friedmann continued, regarding Draco with what looked like pity._

_Draco _Malfoy _did not need anyone's sodding _pity_._

_"You think you're going to fix the poor, broken child soldier?" he snarled. "Yes, I can see it now, how good it would be for a Healer's reputation—'he mentored an ex-Death Eater, made him a respectable young lad, compassionate, kind.' You can _shove _your advice, old man. A Malfoy does not keep a low profile. I'll do as I please and I'll argue with Diggory if I damn well want to."_

_"They say enough bad things about you," the Senior Healer replied without any emotion. He had a slight accent, though Draco couldn't discern what it was, exactly. "I don't think you need 'idiot' to be added to that list as well."_

_"Fuck you."_

_Friedmann stared at Draco, then sighed and shrugged._

_"As you will."_

_ That night, he went to the Toadstool to get some much-needed firewhiskey. Despite what he'd said to Friedmann, he _did_ keep a low profile, and going out to pubs was a rarity these days. _

_He'd stayed in a back corner, hidden by shadow, but he unfortunately had a distinctive look._

_"Well, well, well, it looks as if we've got a _Malfoy _in our presence!"_

_Draco recognized him from Hogwarts, but he couldn't place the boy's name. He was fairly sure that he was Gryffindor, maybe Hufflepuff—not that it mattered, anyway. _

_Trouble was ahead._

_"Would you mind if I bowed at your feet, Draco?" The boy crooned mockingly. "Could I kiss them? Is my half-blood mouth worthy?"_

_He made a show of falling to his knees and crawling towards Draco's feet. His friends were behind him, some glaring at him, some snickering at their pal's big joke. People were beginning to crane their necks to see._

_He was silent and chose to stare at the wall._

_"My, my, my, _canvas _shoes, Draco? These aren't befitting for a man of your stature—nothing's happened to your precious fortune, has it? That truly _would _be terrible."_

_"What do you want?" he asked hatefully, not breaking his gaze towards a landscape painting beside the bar._

_"He speaks!" the boy announced loudly, clapping obnoxiously to garner everyone's attention. Almost everyone had left their seat to watch the spectacle. Suddenly, the boy's face turned hard and he was almost cheek-to-cheek with Draco. He spoke in a false whisper. "I want you to hit me, Draco. It would be such an honour to be touched by the likes of you."_

_"Leave me alone."_

_"I _said_, I want you to hit me."_

"_And _I _said leave me alone_,"_ Draco replied loudly, clearly._

_"The half-bloods aren't even good enough for a punch in the face from Draco Malfoy!" he shouted right in Draco's ear. "My poor, unworthy heart is broken by such a devastating rejection. Or are you just _still _too fucking cowardly to stand up for anything, even your prissy self?"_

_The crowd was watching with big eyes, waiting for the kill._

_He couldn't do it. He couldn't fight._

_He couldn't face Azkaban._

_ He stood to leave, but the boy blocked his way._

_"_Hit me, Malfoy_!"_

_"NO!"_

_The boy swung his mug of butterbeer straight into Draco's cheekbone, knocking him backwards and making stars burst into his vision. He struggled to get up, but was kindly aided by the Gryffindor/Hufflepuff idiot grabbing the scruff of his collar. _

_"Hit me back," he dared Draco, or maybe commanded him. He couldn't tell anymore. _

_Draco glared at him, but did nothing. Then, a knee was jerked into his stomach and he was on the floor again. He could taste blood in his mouth and the entire area between his jaw and his eyebrow was throbbing in agony._

_"ENOUGH!" one of the waitresses, a hard-looking Irish woman, bellowed. She set her tray on one of the tables and helped pull Draco to his feet. "You call someone a coward for refusing to play fisticuffs with you?" She turned to him and looked him up and down. "You alright, love?"_

_He wrenched his arm back and pushed through the silent crowd without a word to the barmaid. He then stalked through the streets of London, angry tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. He wouldn't let them fall._

_He finally stopped at a random corner, plopping himself down on the edge of the walkway. He scratched his fingers over his scalp before finally letting his head fall between his knees._

_"You look like you've had a rough night, mate."_

_Draco looked up suddenly, only to see an unfamiliar male face right in front of his, separated by a smoking white stick between the stranger's fingers._

_"Fag?"_

_He didn't know what that was, but he nodded. The stranger stuck the white stick near Draco's lips, and he took it, figuring (apparently correctly) that he was supposed to smoke it like a pipe._

_The stranger appraised him. "You're dressed funny."_

Fucking muggles, _he thought bitterly. "I'm not from around here."_

_The stranger shrugged and stood. "You ever been to the clubs?"_

_Draco looked up and shook his head. _

_The stranger smiled wickedly and reached into the inside of his blazer, pulling out a tiny plastic zip-bag filled with a white powder that Draco didn't recognize. He cocked his head back, beckoning him. "Follow me. We're going to have _fun_ tonight."_

* * *

As soon as his feet touched the black polished wood floor of the manor, he was assaulted by a different party.

"Master must not be angry with Dinky," his house elf squeaked in panic. "Dinky did what he could, Dinky told them to leave but they would not listen!"

Draco slid his hand over his face in pure exhaustion and squeezed his eyes shut. "Dinky, what are you _talking _about?"

"Dinky will show master," the elf replied, panicked. Draco cringed—who _named _house elves, anyway? But he followed along until he was stopped in front of the study.

"They have been here for _hours_, sir," he wailed. "They said they will not leave until Master Malfoy comes home!"

Draco heard hushed voices from inside and he narrowed his eyes. He drew his wand silently and pressed the door open gently—

"Oh, for _fuck _sakes!" Draco roared when he saw them, nearly cursing the two of them on the spot. "I haven't slept in forty-eight hours, what do you _want?_"

Harry stood, his hand raised in a gesture of submission. "We're not here to cause any trouble," he said gently, obviously trying to keep the peace with a sleep-deprived Draco and an enraged Weasley, if the all-over redness of Potter's sidekick was anything to go by. "We just want to know what's going on with Hermione."

Draco wasn't on duty, and he didn't feel like playing nice. "You're trespassing and I'm in a foul mood, Potter."

"Please." It wasn't Potter's voice this time, but Weasley's. Quiet and restrained, but sincere. Concerned.

Suddenly, without reason, Draco's mind flashed to Hermione and how he had seen her last. Her skin had faded to a sickly white with a slight yellowish tinge—her liver (along with every other organ, it seemed) wasn't functioning properly and she was beginning to jaundice. She was too _still_, and by all accounts, she was making every attempt to make herself die.

It was probably best that he was out of there for the time being. He wasn't any use to her in his current state, and he was becoming increasingly discomforted by the sight of a dying Granger.

He hadn't expected to be so rattled by the ordeal.

"Didn't you get an owl?" Draco asked Harry tiredly.

"It didn't explain anything," he replied desperately, "it just said that she was in critical condition and that there couldn't be any visitors."

Draco scratched his neck awkwardly. He never was good at this part of the job. "She… It's not good, Potter."

"What does that mean?" Weasley demanded, his eyes pathetically wide.

"Her organs are beginning to fail," Draco explained, and he found that he had to make an effort to keep his voice neutral. "When I left, she was fairly stable."

Potter couldn't seem to look Draco in the eye. He rocked on his feet with his hands in his pockets. "Is she—is she going to die?"

"I don't know," Draco said honestly, and suddenly he felt like he'd been punched in the gut. _You just need to go to bed, Malfoy. Wrap it up, get them out of here. You're fine. _"We don't have any idea what's wrong with her."

Harry pinched his hand over his mouth and sniffed, moisture collecting at the edges of his eyes. Draco couldn't seem to do anything except stare.

"Right," he whispered. Weasley was oddly silent. "Was it something Dolohov did, or do you, do you think it could have to do with what was happening to her before?"

"I don't know," he repeated, and again, it was the truth.

"Do you know _anything_?" Weasley muttered disdainfully.

"Ron," Potter warned, but Draco somehow managed not to flare at the jab.

"I know that we're using all of our energy keeping her alive," Draco said flatly, and he only then realized how exhausted he sounded. "If she stays stable, we can start to investigate what's happening."

"Can we see her?" Harry asked quietly.

Draco's eyes flicked to the redhead, then back to Potter. "Close friends and family only," he said, without much subtlety.

Weasley started at that. "I _am _a friend!" he protested.

"Are you?" Draco questioned, cocking one of his blonde brows. "I'm not being facetious. It's a legitimate question."

"We've been through a war together, Malfoy," Weasley answered through gritted teeth. "She's saved my life, I've saved hers. You can't tell me that doesn't make me count as a _friend_."

"Well," he replied sarcastically, bitingly; "I've personally saved her life no less than thirteen times this week. That must make us _best _friends then, hm?"

Weasel was about to lunge, but Potter stuck out his arm in front of him. "Enough!" he hissed. "Hermione is barely alive and she's _alone_. We're not at Hogwarts anymore, can we at least _pretend _that we're adults for a few minutes?"

Draco tapped his foot for a moment, annoyed, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

"Weasley, you're an ex-boyfriend and it's not exactly secret that you two had a nasty falling out. I can't allow it under hospital policy while she's unconscious, especially with her in quarantine."

"And when she's conscious?"

_You mean if?_

"Then I suppose that will be her call."

Weasley slumped back into the chair—_his _chair—and nodded. "Fine."

"She can have up to two visitors per day," Draco continued, fatigue plain in his voice. "They have to show up at the beginning of a shift—every four hours, first shift of the day is three A.M. If you don't show up before the new shift starts, you won't be able to get the proper protective charms, if you don't get the protective charms, you won't get in." He sighed. "Is there anything else that I can help you two with, or can I go to bed in peace?"

"Not quite yet," Harry said, with notable regret, "we do have some Auror business."

Draco glared. "_What _Auror business?"

"Just a couple of questions." Draco noticed that the pair weren't exactly looking peppy, either. Potter's under-eyes were almost as dark as his hair, and Weasley was barely able to keep his eyes open at all. "What happened between Hermione and Dolohov?"

Draco blew out air. "I don't know, exactly. He must have been hiding in her house. I heard a bit of shouting and then he yelled out his curse and I forced myself in."

"You don't know what he said to her, what he did before they started throwing spells?"

Draco squinted, trying to recall the memory. His mind was fuzzy, his memory like an inked page that water had spilled over. "No… He must have pushed her, or maybe she threw something at him, because I heard something break. I couldn't hear what they were saying—if they were saying anything, I'm not sure—I was outside."

"Right, okay," Harry nodded. A quill was scratching away independently behind him, and Draco wasn't sure when or how it had appeared. He needed to sleep. "And you heard him use _Veloces diruam, _was there anything else?"

He shook his head. "Granger cast a shield charm, but I didn't hear anything else. There's a good chance he cast a nonverbal, though, based on her current state."

"Yes," Potter agreed. "Just one more question for now—"

"Why were you at Hermione's house in the first place?" Weasley interjected bitterly.

Potter closed his eyes slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose again. "Yes. That."

Draco frowned and stared at both of them. "For _healing_, what do you think?"

"I didn't know you made house calls—" the redhead started, but he cut him off.

"I _don't_," Draco snapped. "And I'm not going to elaborate. I'm bound by confidentiality."

"This investigation supercedes patient confidentiality," Harry said wearily. "I can get the document saying so if you need it, but it's in my office and I don't know about you, but I'd like to go to sleep within the next couple of hours."

Draco growled in frustration. He didn't like being backed into a corner, especially when his integrity as a Healer was involved.

"She's stubborn as a bloody ox and she wasn't getting the pain management she needed, alright?" he snapped, deciding he had no choice but to appease them. "She refused to take any potion except one of my own brews, and I don't give out prescriptions without examinations. I realized that perhaps we could compromise and I could give her a controlled dose by administering it myself, to make sure she didn't overdose or become dependent or anything like that. I didn't know when I would run into her next and as I'm sure you know she refused to have me on as her Healer, so she didn't have any appointments booked with me. I thought dropping by was the best solution."

"And how did she react to you stopping by?" Weasley this time, but no malice in his voice, just business.

He didn't see how that could _possibly _be pertinent to the investigation. "She was acting… strange," he admitted, but he wasn't going to tell them about the _Mudblood _scar. "But she consented to the potion and told me that she _had _actually intended on making an appointment with me."

"Don't you find it lucky," Weasley said with murder in his eyes, "that our Healer hero Malfoy just so happened to be visiting when his old comrade decides to show up and wreak havoc?"

"Call off your dog, Potter!" Draco snarled. "I don't take kindly to insinuations that I've been scheming away with Death Eaters!"

But rather than warning Weasley again, Harry frowned shook his head. "Ron's right, Malfoy. It doesn't look good on you that you were around when your old Hogwarts rival gets attacked by one of your former… _Colleagues_."

Draco's mouth was suddenly dry. "I didn't _do _anything to her. Unless it's escaped your notice, all I've _been doing_ these past few days has been trying to keep her alive, Potter!"

"You know that the public isn't going to see it that way," Weasley replied, stealing an uneasy look at his partner.

Draco drew himself to his full height and stalked towards him until they were nose to nose. "Are you _threatening _me, Weasley?"

Potter placed his hand on Draco's chest to guide him back, but he just slapped it away forcefully and sneered disgustedly at the pair of them.

"We're not threatening you, Malfoy," Harry interjected quietly. "Just stating facts."

"You can't do this," Draco breathed. His head was buzzing and he couldn't think properly. "I haven't done anything to her, I was trying to _help _her! My career can't take this. _I _can't take this! Do you have ANY idea what they'll do to me if they think that I've been conspiring against a muggle-born with a Death Eater?"

"'They' don't have to know," Potter whispered. "So long as Hermione gets through this."

Draco stepped back, his eyebrows raised in utter disbelief. "You have _got _to be joking. Two-thirds of the golden trio are trying to _blackmail _me? You can't be serious."

He actually laughed.

Potter and Weasley did not.

In fact, their faces were quite grim.

"You _can't _be serious!" He protested again, a swell of dread bubbling in his gut. "I didn't try to hurt her, you KNOW I didn't!"

"What I know," Harry stated flatly, "is that you hated Hermione and you said that you wished she would be murdered by the Basilisk in second year. That's what I know."

"You stupid, ungrateful _pricks_—"

"All we want to do is make sure Hermione's getting the best care possible and you're not letting yourself get sloppy because you haven't got over some grade-school grudge," Potter interrupted.

His head was spinning. "I'm not Merlin," he said weakly, "I genuinely don't know if _anyone _can save her. We don't know what's _wrong _with her!"

"You'd best find out, then, hadn't you?"

Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall back. "Get out of my house. Now."

A dark and dangerous thing was creeping inside him, and he daren't let it surface.

"We just want what's best for her, Malfoy."

When he didn't reply, they both disapparated and he finally opened his eyes.

It appeared that he wouldn't be transferring Granger off to another Healer.

He closed his eyes again.

He wouldn't be sleeping tonight, either.

He _had _to sleep.

Numbly, he walked to his medicine cabinet and took out a dreamless sleep draught and downed it in one swallow. He slowly wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and he paused, thinking.

Granger was going to be the death of him, _not _the other way around.

* * *

_PS: This chapter might make you feel sorry for him, but Draco Malfoy is never completely innocent. _

_We'll get more of Hermione and her condition next chapter._


	7. Chapter 7: The reminders

_A/N: One of my lovely reviewers suggested that I don't actually need to hash out the entire chapter in my author's notes beforehand... So I think I may just take their advice :) _

_It's a bit of a neurotic habit, you see._

_Thank you again for everyone's support, I can't tell you how great it is to see so many reviews! I love you guys._

**_Warning: brief mentions of torture._**

* * *

"For years," Ron growled immediately as they hit the earth, "for _years _you've been on my back, telling me to '_let bygones be bygones_' and to give people the benefit of the doubt. Would you _mind _telling me what that was about?"

"Thanks for playing along," Harry replied a bit breathlessly, walking briskly and leaving Ron in the dust behind him, gobsmacked.

"What in the bloody _hell_ is going on?!" Ron demanded, breaking into a jog to catch up with his friend. "You think that Malfoy planned all of this?"

"No," he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets as he strode forward. "But something doesn't feel right. Why would the busiest Healer in the U.K. _seek out _a patient who didn't want treatment? And really, what are the chances that he would be there when Dolohov attacked her? Why didn't he just disapparate when he was finished healing her?"

"But you just said you didn't think he—"

"I _don't_," Harry insisted. "But I don't know what the truth is, either."

Ron made a face. "So, you thought it wise to threaten Malfoy… _why?_"

"I don't trust him," Harry sighed. "He's _obsessed _with his reputation—you heard him in there. Falling out of the social elite and losing his galleons nearly did him in after the war. If he thinks that his career is on the line, he won't mess around with Hermione."

"Have you gone _mad_? There are other Healers on that ward, you know! We could have just gotten her transferred to one of them!" Ron spat, his mouth curling into an ugly snarl. Harry knew that the thought of being on the bad side of a Malfoy panicked him, and knowing that Hermione was on the brink of death would be devastating to him, but he couldn't comfort Ron just now. Harry shook his head solemnly.

"He's the expert on dark magic and the best chance we have. Plus, if we have him distracted, maybe we can investigate what's really going on. And Hermione…" He swallowed heavily. "Whatever Dolohov's done is killing her. Couldn't you see it in Malfoy's face? I need him to be motivated to find out what's wrong with her and to fix it. I didn't have _time_ to wait and figure out another way!"

Ron's mouth clamped shut, but his eyes were a mixture of anger and worry. Harry stared ahead furiously, digging his hands further down his pockets until it brought pain to his knuckles.

The night air was cold on their faces, and they were both silent.

* * *

Draco pulled the heavy door open and he let it slam loudly behind him. He rubbed his face tiredly before surveying the discoloured body that lay before him.

"Tell me everything," he said through his hands to the medi-witch, Wanda.

"Powerful little curse he invented," she sighed, motioning to a very unconscious Antonin Dolohov. She was an older woman; fat, wrinkled and cantankerous-looking, but Draco considered her the most competent of her profession on the ward by far. "He's responding to the mending potions. We won't know if we got to him before brain damage set in until he wakes. He'll be in a controlled coma until the pain's bearable enough for him, though I don't know why we're bothering. I expect he'll be getting the Dementor's kiss soon as he wakes."

"I take it you don't know the occupant of the other quarantine room," Draco muttered.

"Of course I know who's in the other bloody room," she snapped. "Like it matters a whit. Do you really think that who the patient is will change anything?"

"It's _Hermione Granger_, Wanda," he hissed, though he didn't know why his voice had become so hard. "Dementor's kiss or not, he needs to live so that he can tell us what he's done to her."

Wanda eyed him skeptically, apparently suspicious that Draco hadn't yet figured out what was wrong with Hermione, nor the point that she was trying to drive to him. She shook her head in disbelief and let out a bitter laugh. "And _why _would he want to tell you _that_?"

_Salazar save me, _Draco thought anxiously, his heart sinking, _the woman's got a point._

* * *

"Look, Granger, I know that we have a history, but I'm a professional."

Everything was upside-down.

Draco Malfoy was clad in Healer's robes, yet he looked younger—much younger. His frame was rail-thin, which served to accentuate the angularity of his features. But his eyes… those were the most different. Not grey. Obsidian.

Darkness within them, but so much more darkness behind them.

_When did I last see those eyes? _

The wind was blowing. Torn bits of parchment whipped through the air, ancient tomes were strewn across the blackened ground, the pages flipping wildly with the gusts.

Hermione realized that she was sprawled across the floor on her back, her neck bent awkwardly so that she was looking up at Malfoy—hence the world appearing to be inverted. She wanted to move and she begged her body to respond, but it was too heavy, too broken.

"_And still the Mudblood lives,_" he whispered.

His voice sounded far away and foreign. It was spurious, but somehow also definitely—uncomfortably—real.

Lines of blue flame began to dance with the wind.

"Why," she began to slur, but the words were catching before they would leave her mouth. Her throat was tightening painfully, but she needed to know, she knew this was important. "What does it mean?"

"This? Probably nothing," Draco replied nonchalantly, gesturing to the scene around him with a tilt of his head before shrugging. "But maybe everything."

And Hermione knew that she wasn't dreaming, not really.

* * *

Even though recent events had Draco wanting to strangle Potter in his sleep, he had to concede that the ex-Gryffindor was a faithful friend.

Halfway through his first shift back from being sent home, there Potter was, waiting for 7 PM to roll in so he could get the protective charms cast on him. Draco wanted to come up with some reason to get him escorted off the premises, but between Potter's celebrity and falling squarely into the friends and family visitation rights, there wasn't much hope of that.

Draco paused.

_Friends and _family _visitation rights…_

_Fuck_! Was there _no_ respite from this hell-torn week? How could he _possibly _forget about Granger's parents?

He ignored Harry for the time being and strode to check on his other patients, allowing one of the medi-witches to outfit Potter with wards so that he wouldn't have to do it himself. He was going to avoid him as long as humanly possible—which wouldn't be very long, considering that Granger was under his care for the next twelve hours and she needed to be checked by a Healer at least every half-hour.

He delayed the inevitable for as long as he could, but finally, Draco dragged himself into the quarantine room.

He wasn't prepared for it.

Granger had deteriorated more than he had thought possible in the sixteen hours that he'd been absent. According to Friedmann and his other Healers, her health hadn't worsened considerably, but her appearance told a different story. Everything about her looked frail and pitiful—even her ridiculous bushy hair had fallen limp against her face. Potter sat dutifully beside her, holding her languid fingers in one hand and methodically stroking the unkempt locks away from Granger's cheeks with the other. Draco felt his stomach knot uncomfortably at the sight and he cleared his throat loudly to get Potter's attention.

Harry startled at the noise, but to Draco's surprise, he didn't shy away from what he was doing upon seeing him. Instead, he turned back to Hermione with a troubled look and continued trying to bring comfort to his unconscious friend.

"Hello, Malfoy."

"Potter," he returned curtly. Dying friend or not, he would _not_ allow any pity in his heart for someone who was trying to sabotage him. "Er… I need to check her vitals."

Harry glanced back at him and sighed. Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and bent over to give a soft kiss on her cheek, and Draco found himself feeling smugly satisfied when Potter finally had to back away.

Granger reacted unpredictably to the spells, sometimes with no change, and other times setting her magic into overdrive, spitting sparks and manipulating the gravity and pull of the room. Those reactions were particularly frustrating, because they automatically triggered an alarm that vanished all of the loose objects in the room—including Draco's equipment or any potion he'd brought in but hadn't yet administered. Therefore, the Healers and medi-witches had to limit their use of magic whenever possible, which meant taking vitals the old fashioned (_muggle_) way, which was much slower, and to Draco's chagrin, required much more body contact.

Oddly, though, muggle medicines weren't doing what they were supposed to do, either. They couldn't achieve proper levels of _anything_ despite the drugs. The only things that were reliably helping Granger were actual physical interventions, like a device to regulate her breathing. It didn't make any fucking sense.

Once he was finished, he jotted the statistics into her chart and turned back to Potter, dreading what he was about to say. "I have to ask you for a favour."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You're not even going to _address _this, then?" he asked waspishly, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at Hermione.

"There's nothing to discuss," he replied coldly, letting his professionalism slip more than he really ought to. "She's steadily getting weaker, but she hasn't had any major incident since we last spoke. I'm doing the best that I can. That's it. That's all there is."

Surprisingly, Potter didn't utter a word of complaint about Draco's callousness, but continued back to their conversation.

"What favour?"

"Muggles can't come into the quarantine units," he said quietly; maybe if he said it quietly enough, the problem would just go away. "Without powers, there's nothing for the protective charms to bond to. Unfortunately, Granger's parents won't be able to visit her while she's here."

Harry blinked. "That's the most ridiculous thing that I've ever heard. Wizards use magic on muggles all the time."

"I know," Draco sighed impatiently. "It's difficult to explain. Certain spells, usually ones that last for a period of time, bind to the magic of the wizard they're cast on. If there's no magic, the spell can't hold. That's how it is with these wards. It's the same with the fidelius charm, unbreakable vows—and, of course, the underage trace that we all had during our Hogwarts years. Some of the longer-acting curses as well, but a lot of dark magic was created to be indiscriminate of its victims…" He was rambling, but he couldn't really help it. He was on edge.

"Right," Harry muttered. "So you want meto break the news, yeah?"

Potter sounded exhausted. Draco wondered if the Golden Boy had finally buckled under pressure like every other mere mortal, what with the Dolohov case and Granger. For a fleeting moment, Draco felt a twinge of compassion for the twat. Sometimes he wished he was more like his Hogwarts self—ruthless, spoiled and unforgiving. It made things less complicated.

Luckily, the feeling quickly passed. As if _any_ of that was a bloody excuse for blackmailing him.

"I think it would be easier on them to hear it from someone familiar," he said awkwardly. _Awkward doesn't even begin to cover this sodding mess_. "I'll speak with them soon after. St. Mungo's has provided a few of those muggle talking devices for communication with families. I'll use one of those, and if they want I'll arrange to meet them properly."

"Telephones," Harry supplied.

_Like I give a fuck what they're called!_

"Yeah, telephone," Draco replied, keeping his tone firmly in check. He was beginning to let his contempt for Potter cloud his judgment, he knew it. Unconsciously, he glanced back at Hermione and frowned. "So? Can you do that?"

Potter followed his gaze and nodded. It didn't escape Draco's notice that the Auror's breath rattled as he exhaled.

* * *

"_Ennervate_."

Eighteen diagnostic spells, a medley of potions and countless healing incantations and he was no farther along than he had been before he started. He felt useless—an unwelcome state of being for any member of the Malfoy family. If anything, Granger had gotten worse.

Now, he was alone in her room, grasping at straws like a panicked apprentice Healer. She had been in his care for seven days, and at this rate, she wouldn't be seeing the end of another week.

"_Ennervate!" _he shouted.

Hermione didn't stir; she wouldn't even do as much as shudder. Her eyes were closed and her long, black eyelashes brushed the bruised skin beneath them. Her wasting frame seemed completely engulfed by the myriad of medical apparatuses that were sustaining her—a charmed breathing device, intravenous drip, a feeding tube.

If he didn't reverse whatever Dolohov had done—yes, he was positive now that the Death Eater had managed a curse, even in his incapacitated state—Granger would be gone by the same time tomorrow, two days tops.

He didn't want to think of what would await him if he allowed her to die.

She showed traces of dark magic, but there was no discerning what kind. It was nothing that Draco recognized. By the same token, he was fairly certain that her current state was also a product of whatever had been causing her so much pain before Dolohov attacked her. It appeared to him that the Death Eater had activated something older, something that was already there.

_If he activated it, he has to know what _it _is._

By Wanda's estimation, Dolohov would be awake and (_hopefully_) relatively alert in three days, and then he could be questioned.

The problem was that Hermione didn't _have _three days.

"_ENNERVATE!"_

She remained still, and Draco stood swiftly, kicking his stool to the wall in the process. "God damn it, Granger! Wake _up_! Move! Do _SOMETHING_!" he roared at her near-lifeless body.

Sirens sounded immediately and he heard the distinct _pop_ of items vanishing around him. Draco sucked in a shaky, furious breath and squeezed his eyes shut, marching towards the door and finding the handle without any vision whatsoever, purely by memory and repetition.

"Malfoy?" Wanda called uncertainly as he stalked through the hall. "The alarm—"

"She reacted to an _ennervate_ charm," he called loudly over his shoulder. "Observation for an hour, then resume your regular care duties. Call on Healer Smythe if anything happens."

"Where are you _going_?" she shouted back.

"The Ministry," he answered, and he wouldn't elaborate any further.

As his mother used to say, desperate times called for desperate measures.

* * *

Hermione opened her eyes wildly. She couldn't move, and her head was pinned painfully to the side. The only thing that she could see in her immobilized state was pale, creamy skin blotted by a tattoo of a snake threaded through a skull.

_How did I get on the floor? _

_It doesn't _matter_, you idiot! You've been CAPTURED!_

Right. The Dark Mark. It could tell her where she was and why she was there; it meant that she was in immediate danger. The Mark was a… What was that word?

"Is this _really _necessary, Bellatrix?" came a voice so bored and exasperated that it could only belong to a Malfoy. Malfoy Senior, to be exact.

"Oh, I should think so, Lucius," Bellatrix replied sweetly, and now Hermione realized that she was being straddled by the psychotic witch. She lacked the energy to voice her protest; her mind was vacant, her body broken, her spirit beyond that. "She needs a reminder, don't you think?"

_Reminder_; that was the word she was looking for. It was an important one, she knew, though she couldn't say exactly why.

Metal touched skin, and in a single moment, Hermione both realized her fate and was resigned to it.

_I won't scream for her. It's what she wants. I will not scream because of Bellatrix Lestrange. _

But she did. The blade was goblin-made; it had been imbued with something that made it feel like each stroke was pouring acid into her slashed skin. She screamed with such raw agony that she could feel her lungs burn in protest. She screamed louder and longer than she'd thought possible; she screamed until Bellatrix finally removed the dagger to admire her handiwork.

Her arm was being lifted up. Hermione felt like a ghost—once the blade had lifted, she felt disconnected from feeling, like an outside observer.

"_Look at it,_ Mudblood," Bellatrix snarled, shoving Hermione's mutilated arm into her vision. "Look at what you are. _Remember _it."

She looked at it, but she didn't _see,_ not really. Her gaze fell somewhere between her forearm and Bellatrix's, where the Dark Mark seemed to slither almost restlessly.

_Marked, _she thought, a single tear sliding down her dirtied cheek, _marked so that everyone will know, marked so that we'll always remember._

The reminders.

* * *

Draco watched as Granger fidgeted and twitched about in her bed, occasionally moaning something incoherent. She seemed to be distressed, but at least it meant that she was dreaming. He took it as a positive sign; it was the most lifelike activity he'd seen from her since she entered St. Mungo's.

She was looking much better already. Though he had gotten used to seeing the yellowish-grey pallor that so many patients took on in ward four, he felt less tense sitting beside her now than he had before the elixirs had started working.

It hadn't taken much convincing at the Ministry to get access to the potions that he wanted. When he told them that Granger would most certainly be dead in a couple of days without action, a quiet panic crept through the room like an electric shock. It seemed that no one wanted to be the one that could be forever known as the one who practically signed Hermione Granger's death certificate.

His eyes flicked up to the IV pouch.

_It's a high price to pay._

He frowned. _As if I had a bloody choice!_

Like clockwork, Potter arrived at 7 PM, this time with she-Weasley on his arm. Granger had had a slew of visitors: Longbottom, the crazy Ravenclaw blonde whose name escaped him, and almost the entire brood of Weasley's—minus Weaselbee himself, of course—but Potter was there every single night at the same time.

Draco performed the protective incantations this time, knowing that he would have to face the pair at some point.

Upon entering Granger's room, the girl blanched and seemed to lose her balance, but Harry took no notice, as he had run over to the bed with a grin on his face. Draco gripped Weasley's arm and helped her steady herself, for which he earned a perplexed 'thank you.' She stared at Potter, incredulous at his giddiness.

After what felt like a lifetime of Weasley's anticipatory silence, Potter seemed to remember himself and he turned back to his girlfriend.

"No, no, it's good, Ginn! You didn't see her yesterday—she looks _loads_ better! Doesn't she, Malfoy?"

Weasley looked up at Draco warily for an explanation of Potter's manic behaviour. The desperation in the Auror's voice made him feel ill with unease—he really was _fucked _if Granger didn't wake up.

"Yes, she's definitely improved since yesterday," Draco agreed, clearing his throat. "Look, Potter—Weasley—"

"Just Potter now," the girl said pleasantly to him, and it was only then that he noticed the simple diamond ring adorning her finger.

_When did _that_ happen? _

"Right," he said stiffly, massaging his forehead. "As I was saying, we need to discuss _why _she's improving. I had to start her on a new treatment regimen."

"Well, yes," Potter answered cautiously, "whatever you were doing before wasn't working, so that only seems logical."

"I'm glad you see it that way." He crossed the room to the side of Granger's bed. "Come over here. Both of you."

The couple stole uneasy glances with one another before the girl approached slowly, Potter close behind.

Draco pointed to the IV pouch, specifically at the label covering it. "Do either of you recognize this?"

Ginny shook her head as Harry's face instantly darkened.

"I take it you've gotten Ministry exemption for using this?" Potter questioned, turning to Draco suddenly.

"Ministry _approval_," he corrected sharply. "And yes, I have, along with consent from Granger's parents… Not that I needed it."

"Harry?" the girl asked uncertainly. "What is it? What does it do?"

"We've put Hermione on a schedule of several different potions," Draco explained, studying Potter's face carefully. He couldn't seem to read his expression. "The reason I needed Ministry approval is because it's technically considered to be dark magic. The potions act to debilitate her powers. The reason she's improving is because whatever has caused her illness appears to be based in some sort of magic that's trapped in her system. She's fortunate for that. If it was a biological issue, the potions wouldn't have helped her at all."

"So, when she wakes up… She'll essentially be a muggle?" Ginevra furrowed her brow in confusion.

"No," he replied firmly. "We haven't given her the full dose. If you completely strip a witch or wizard of their powers, the effect is permanent."

Potter had been strangely silent, but he was watching Draco like a hawk. Finally, the Auror spoke.

"Exactly _how _debilitated will her magic be?"

"She'd find it difficult to levitate a feather," Draco said bluntly. "And there's about a thirty percent chance that she'll have some sort of permanent damage to her magical abilities… perhaps less than that since she's still quite young."

Ginny's eyes widened. "Malfoy, I really don't think that this is what Hermione would have wanted—"

"No," Potter interrupted, much to Draco's surprise, "but it would appear that there isn't an alternative."

"Correct," Draco replied slowly, eyeing Harry with suspicion. "Anyway… If her recovery continues at the same rate, she should regain consciousness fairly soon. Hermione will be quite weak for a time—_very _tired—and situations like this tend to hit patients quite hard emotionally. She'll need all of the support that she can get and I'd ask that you try to keep visits as calm as possible."

"Of course," Ginny replied automatically. "Anything to help her along."

"What about Dolohov?" Potter asked suddenly.

Draco let out a short laugh, though it was far from happy. "Yes... Dolohov. I'm very hopeful that once he's talking, we'll know what's happened to Granger and that will be the end of this nightmare. He's woken up a couple of times now, but he's being so heavily medicated that he's not really coherent."

"Meaning?"

"_Meaning_ I'll owl you as soon as he can be questioned," he answered in a too-friendly tone. Draco _was_ trying to be cooperative, but just came off as sounding impatient.

Mercifully, Potter relented and nodded, sighing. "Alright."

"Good. Well, if you don't have any more questions, I'll leave you three alone for a few minutes." He nodded his head in acknowledgement. "Good night."

Out of nowhere, Ginny stepped towards him and almost looked like she was going in for a hug (a terrifying prospect), but at the last second she seemed to think better of it and squeezed his arm instead.

"Thanks, Malfoy. Really," she said seriously. Her face was deadpan, so he had to assume that she wasn't trying to make an ass out of him. "I know this whole situation is probably… Odd for you, to say the least. I can't tell you how grateful we are."

There was an extended pause before Ginny tried to shove Harry in the ribs without Draco noticing.

"Er, yes. What she said," Potter said quickly, smiling awkwardly at him. Draco raised his eyebrows back, incredulous at both of them—Ginny for actually _thanking _him and Potter having the audacity to pretend that he was extending the same courtesy. Luckily, Draco was a better actor than Harry and he gave a polite smile to the two of them, bowing his head in acknowledgment.

"Just trying to do my job," he replied, his eyes locked meaningfully with Potter's for a brief moment before he started, again, to walk out of the room.

"Um, Malfoy," Ginny piped up before he reached the door. "Don't you think it's a bit institutional in here?"

He turned around and blinked at her. "It's a _hospital_, Weasley."

"It's _Pott_—ugh, couldn't we just call people by their first names like regular human beings?" she asked in exasperation. She shook her head quickly as if to clear the frustration from the air. "What I meant was that it sounds like Hermione's going to be in here a while. Could we maybe make the room look a little _less _like a quarantine unit?"

Draco frowned, surveying the white, blank walls and seeing little he could add that wouldn't just vanish every time the alarm got set off. He walked over to the wall and stared at it for several moments, then made a square-shaped outline with his wand. Instantly, the walls began to shift into a large window. Obviously, since the room was in the heart of the hospital, the window only showed the inside of the wall—perhaps not the best view. Draco ran his wand over it again and a serene landscape appeared in the confines of the window, with hills reaching back to the horizon and trees scaling across the scene. With another flick, he added a sprinkling of snow, plus some frost on the other side of the glass. Lastly, he decided to push the entire thing back, using the new depth to create a cushioned alcove. He surveyed his handiwork and nodded. It wouldn't be an entirely bad idea to do something similar for the other quarantine units...

He turned and raised his hand to the 'window'. "Better?"

Ginny's mouth moved into a bemused smirk and she nodded. "It's perfect."

* * *

_Open your eyes. Come on, just open, it's not that hard…_

_ Merlin, it _hurts!

She tried, she _really _did, but she was so tired, the pain was so bad.

She took a deep breath and her eyelids lifted a little. It was blurry and her head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

"Hermione?"

It sounded like the man had cotton in his mouth. Or was the cotton in her ears? She heard something else, a strangled sort of moaning noise—_was that from me_?

"Just wait. I'll be right back."

_Don't go! Please, don't go!_

She didn't know where she was. She didn't know the man who spoke, she didn't know why her body felt like lead, she didn't know _anything_.

She began to panic.

Her chest began to hitch with shortened breaths and suddenly she couldn't get enough oxygen. She still couldn't see properly—everywhere her eyes went, there was just white. That couldn't be right, surely?

_No. It's not right. _Nothing_ here is right!_

She shut her eyes tightly and started to feel light from the hyperventilation. She was going to pass out…

There was a hand on hers. She thrashed as forcefully as she could to get away from it.

"Granger."

She stilled. She recognized that voice. She didn't know where it was from, but it made her feel calm. The Voice meant that she was safe.

The hand moved up to her neck and pressed in a bit, but The Voice's fingers were gentle.

She leaned into it and let The Voice cradle her head. Her head was so very sore.

"Can you hear me?" he asked.

She nodded shallowly.

A thumb ran across her cheek softly. It felt good.

"Can you open your eyes for me?"

Yes, she could do that. She trusted The Voice. She let her eyelids lift, and instantly she was assaulted with brightness, it _hurt_, she had to shut them again, shut them tight.

More strokes across her cheek, simple and soothing.

"Shh, shh, you're alright, Granger," said The Voice. "How do you feel?"

She didn't know if she could speak, but how could she disappoint him?

"Hurts," was all she could manage. Her throat felt dry.

"I'm going to put a pain potion in your drip," he told her, and suddenly the comforting fingers were gone and her head fell to the side in their absence. Her eyes batted open, searching to see where the hand had gone, then she saw _it. _

The snake and the skull. A sign…

_You've been captured again. _

And she had to escape.

* * *

"Healer Malfoy?"

Draco turned, shrugging his coat on in the process. "Yes, Jesse? I'm about to head out."

The junior Healer nodded a bit nervously. "Yeah, I know, it's just that Hermione Granger seems to be regaining consciousness—"

"She's _waking up_?" He threw his coat off and chucked it over his chair. "Thank you for telling me," he breathed as he started off towards her room.

"Healer Malfoy?" Jesse called from behind him. "Am I—er—should I come as well?"

"_Yes!_" he barked back in exasperation. The apprentice hadn't really gotten the hang of ward four quite yet.

When he entered, Granger was taking her breaths in gasps with her eyes trying to survey the room through half-opened lids before she closed her eyes entirely.

_Clearly panicking. _

He jogged over to her and placed his hand over her wrist. She twitched a bit—probably the most that she could manage between the meds, the pain and the fatigue—and let out a sort of scared squeak.

"_Granger_," he said firmly, trying to pull her back into reality so that she would stop having a fucking fit. Surprisingly, she calmed immediately and her breathing eased.

He frowned and went to check her pulse and her head rolled onto his hand, then she…

She _rubbed _her cheek against his palm?

He swallowed heavily.

"Can you hear me?"

She rubbed against him again in what could pass as a nod and he couldn't help but to run his thumb over her cheek to encourage her to keep communicating. Her skin was dry—he wasn't surprised—but it was reassuringly warm. Granger was obviously quite out of it, and he knew that he would need to explicitly ask for anything he wanted from her.

"Can you open your eyes for me?" he asked gently as he fished his wand from his robe with his free hand. He felt a bit guilty—patients never liked the light when they woke up, but it had to be done. He pushed up his sleeves and leaned over her, wand poised.

Unsurprisingly, she didn't like it either. To make her stay with him, he spoke in a reassuring voice and asked her what she felt.

"Hurts," she murmured almost inaudibly. She leaned further into his hand and he could feel her breath ghosting over his skin. His pulse quickened.

He told her that he would help her with the pain. Only a moment after, she let out a horrible sound that was somewhere between a groan and a scream and her eyes flew open. She immediately spotted her IV and went to wrench it out of her skin. He grabbed at her wrists to stop her.

"What do I do?" Jesse nearly shrieked. Draco had almost forgotten he was there.

"Just get the potion in her drip," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. This was more of what he had expected from her when she woke up, and as fucked up as it was, he was more comfortable with her this way than when she was trying to nuzzle up to him.

She was weak as anything, but she was giving it all she had, kicking her legs feebly and twisting under him. Her eyes were shut again and she was chanting "_no, no, no_."

"Stop," he commanded firmly, holding her wrists rigidly in place. "Granger, stop."

More squirming. She began to scream.

"_Hermione!" _Draco boomed over her. Instantly, her eyes snapped open and she froze, her eyes looking directly into his. Her mouth began to move as if to make a 'ma' sound, but no noise came out. He released his hands slowly and led her arms down to her lap. He gave her a hard stare. "Okay?"

She nodded and fell back into her pillows, her eyes suddenly glassy and no longer focused on him. The excitement was over, and she seemed completely spent. He very much doubted that she had the energy to discuss her situation just now.

"You're in St. Mungo's," he explained as if he were talking to a four year old, "you're safe here. Would you like to sleep for a little while?"

She nodded again, her gaze resting somewhere along the tiled floor. Draco looked back at Jesse and motioned his head towards her IV. The junior Healer hastily administered a sleeping draught. Hermione's eyelids fluttered for a moment before she was knocked out cold.

Draco stood and mussed his hair tiredly.

"Why do you think she freaked out all of a sudden like that?" Jesse asked.

"Damned if I know," Draco muttered, shrugging, "who knows what's going on in your head when you wake up out of a coma."

He started tugging down his sleeve and realized that the band of material he used to cover his Mark had ridden up along with it, exposing it to plain view. Exposing it to Granger.

_That's why. _

"So it's okay to put her back to sleep after being unconscious for so long?"

"Yes," Draco sighed. "She'll have more than her fair share of reality to catch up on once she's rested."


	8. Chapter 8: Estimating perspective

_A/N: I'M SO SORRY. It's late. I know it's late. I had a massive bout of writer's block! I probably sat staring at my computer for twelve hours with this chapter... Grr._

_Thank you for the INCREDIBLE response to the last chapter. I love reviews. They just make my day._

**_Warning: strong_**_ (aka sexually violent)_**_ language and themes of violence in this chapter._**

* * *

Ginny grabbed the nearly-full plate that Harry was about to scrape off into the bin.

"_Eat _it," she said tiredly, placing it back on the table. She put her hand on her hip and stared at him with a mixture of sadness and exasperation. "You barely ate anything."

"I'm not hungry," he said quietly, dismissively pulling _The Daily Prophet _from the table and pretending to read it.

Ginny sighed and sat down across from him, defeated. The past week had been hell at the Potter household and the Weasley households (_all _of them). Harry was in such a constant state of trepidation that she was surprised he hadn't exploded yet. When she went for refuge at Ron's flat, instead of tension, she was met with sullen silence. It was a bit better at the Burrow, but the subject of Hermione inevitably came up. Her admission to hospital had seemed to shock everyone back to what they were like during the War—with the threat of losing a loved one hanging above their heads, laughter was hard won.

"She's improving, Harry," she said reassuringly, but he ignored her. Ginny frowned and snatched the paper from his hands. "Will you _stop_?" she snapped.

He seemed surprised at her reaction; he blinked rapidly at her, causing guilt to stab at her insides. "Sorry," he breathed.

She sighed and walked over to him, hugging his back over the chair. "I was just hoping that you and Ron might have brightened up a bit after our visit with her last night."

Harry snorted bitterly. "Ron's not going to 'brighten up' until he sees her and finally apologizes to her. I guess he finally realized that reconciling with Hermione was more important than his pride."

Ginny managed to keep her face impassive. The headline that damned Ron still lingered in her mind—the one that (in her opinion) had lost Hermione to him forever, no matter how much her idiot brother tried to backtrack and explain himself. He couldn't seem to admit was that Sarah _was_ not his primary sin to Hermione. Ron's true crime was punishing her for her most hidden, darkest vulnerability and then revealing it for the whole world to see.

Hermione had been remarkably strong. _Stronger than I could have been, _Ginny knew. She had refused to hide and politely declined to comment to the onlookers, and if anyone hadn't known that Hermione Granger was the most resilient and courageous woman ever to grace the wizarding world, they learned in the months following the breakup. She apparently felt no need to try to quash the rumors or to elaborate on the stories in an attempt to make herself look better, and in the end, the public got bored of waiting for a breakdown that wasn't coming.

Behind closed doors, however, the breakdown had been alive and well. Hermione eventually moved into her and Harry's flat while the dust settled, and only then did she let the tears fall. Even then, Hermione would cast _muffilato _charms over the guest bedroom and handle her grief privately.

There was one night that she either forgot or was too distraught to cast a proper silencing charm. Ron had come over, originally trying to explain himself, but the apology had twisted itself into something else entirely. Explanation turned to reasoning, reasoning to pleading, and pleading to venom after Hermione had pushed him away as he had tried to hold her. Afterwards, hearing the whimpered crying, Ginny crept in and slid onto the bed, wrapping her arms around Hermione's trembling figure. She said nothing, she just sobbed with such unadulterated anguish that soon Ginny's tears mingled with Hermione's and they both mourned the loss of what was supposed to have been.

Ginny had never witnessed a heart that broken.

She forced herself back to the present and looked at Harry. "Well, I guess he'll get his chance at it. And what about you?"

Harry studied his toast. "I'll be happy when she's home."

"That's asking for too much," Ginny replied, probably more harshly than was necessary. "We have to focus on what's realistic for right now, and right now, we should be thankful that she's beginning to improve."

"_Thankful?"_ Harry demanded, his eyes ablaze with resentment. "Hermione was the closest thing I had to a family after Sirius and Dumbledore died! She's the reason Ron and I survived and destroyed all of the Horcruxes, and now she's lying in a quarantine unit and can't use her own magic! You want me to be _thankful_?"

Ginny returned the hard stare. "Yeah, I do. She _should _have died and we wouldn't even _have _Hermione. Instead, she'll be waking up soon, and we have the best Healer in Britain as her primary."

He scowled. "The best, yeah? I bet Malfoy's just _trembling_ with pleasure that he's going to get credit for healing Hermione _and _manage to render her a muggle in the process!"

"Are you LISTENING to yourself?" she shouted. "Why are you trying to find someone to pin the blame on when Dolohov's right there? What _possible _reason would Draco have to hurt her?"

Harry was silent for several moments and breathing hard. Ginny realized that his eyes were beginning to mist and she placed her hand over his.

"Harry—"

"I didn't do anything," he muttered, pulling away from her and taking his glasses off to clean them. "When there was a sighting, I didn't push enough to make it public. I didn't even _tell _her, I was too stupid to even _consider_ who he might be trying to target by coming back to London!"

He sighed angrily and pushed his chair away from the table, moving to stand.

"This isn't your fault," Ginny said softly, grabbing his hand again and looking at him earnestly. She should have known that his mind would go there. Harry seemed to blame himself for everything bad that happened to those around him—a tendency from his childhood that he'd never been able to break.

"Then whose fault is it?" he asked passively. The ragged sadness in his eyes tore right through her.

"_Dolohov's_," she said clearly, though she couldn't keep from sounding incredulous at his inability to understand that. He went quiet again, and he looked like he had something to tell her, but he seemed to decide against it and he walked away, letting tension settle in its familiar place between them.

* * *

Dolohov was trying to manipulate his binds with his fingers when Draco came in.

"That won't do any good, you know."

Dolohov didn't even look up; he just continued vainly trying to pry at the padded leather with his nails. "Malfoy. Always such a pleasure."

Draco circled around the Death Eater in cautious observation. Dolohov seemed unperturbed at his predicament—not much different than he'd ever been. He found it a bit disturbing, to be honest, that the man hadn't completely worn away into nothingness despite the harsh passage of years.

"Just _what _do you think you're going to accomplish?" Draco questioned with plain irritation.

At this, Dolohov looked up with a smirk plastered on his face. "Who knows. Maybe I'll get another chance at the Mudblood bitch before you bring your Dementors in."

Draco frowned down at him, more out of confusion than anything, but said nothing.

"Oh, and look at his face fall," Dolohov simpered mockingly, returning his attention to the bindings. "_Disgusting_. Does she know?"

He blinked. "Know what?"

Dolohov snorted and shook his head disbelievingly. "I always said that you were an abomination. Have you forgotten your blood, Draco?"

The insinuation clicked in Draco's mind and he drew back with a repulsed sneer. "If you're _quite _finished making up stories, I'd like to get down to business."

"And what if I don't _want _to get down to business?" he asked absently, managing to make a scratch in the leather that magically resealed almost instantly. Dolohov finally seemed to lose his composure and he tugged at the restraints violently with a vicious growl. "_FUCK!_"

"I told you it wouldn't do you any good," Draco said, annoyed. "Now. What did you do to Granger?"

Dolohov spat at him.

He kept up a veneer of calmness, despite the angered impatience that was beginning to boil under his skin. Within the walls of St. Mungo's, he was supposed to have control—Draco Malfoy did _not_ work under Potter's blackmail or try to wheel and deal with a fucking Death Eater.

"Let's try this again. _What did you do?_"

Dolohov shoved himself back into his pillow and scowled. He said nothing.

"The Aurors are coming tomorrow. You _know _it's going to be forced from you," Draco hissed, staring murderously, "so why don't you save us both some time and save _yourself _some pain?"

He wished he could just use legilimency and have it done with, but he needed Ministry approval for that too, and that took time.

"What, and keep you from snivelling as your precious Mudblood dies? I wouldn't miss that sight for the world."

"She's not my—"

He stopped midsentence and let out a roar of frustration. Draco could practically _feel _Dolohov's smugness as he slammed the door behind him.

* * *

_Fog_.

As Hermione stirred to consciousness, it was all that she could feel. Words entered her mind, but they didn't quite string together into thought. Her body seemed heavy, yet her veins felt empty. It was an odd sensation, one that might have gotten her thinking if she'd been capable of it.

She vaguely remembered something white, but it wasn't enough to piece together where she was or why. She slowly opened her eyes and the first thing she saw was her arm.

The _mudblood_ scar and something below it—a needle?

_That doesn't belong there._

She frowned and groggily pulled it from her skin, her eyelids drooping against her will. Hermione slid her fingers up the needle and the tube it was attached to and she realized it was attached to a small, plastic pouch with writing on it. She couldn't read it. She tried to pull it closer, but the stand it was fixed to just rolled to the other side. _Maybe if _I _move to _it_…_

Drowsily, Hermione began to shift herself near the edge of the bed. It was an agonizingly slow process since it took so much effort to force movement from her limbs, but eventually she was almost within reach of the stand.

Her skin was already damp with sweat.

She started to lift her arm to grab at the IV, but it just shook violently when she tried to bring it off of the bed and she couldn't keep it up. She grit her teeth and pulled herself just a little bit closer—

Suddenly, she was sliding, then _falling_, and she flipped and twisted before she could correct herself. She landed hard, her cheekbone colliding with a loud _crack _against the white tile. Hermione cried out, but her voice was hoarse and squeaky; it made little sound at all.

The sudden pain had jarred her fully awake, and she abruptly realized where she must be. Not that it mattered for all of the use it did her—she was on the ground, barely able to move, and definitely unable to call for help. Now, more than ever, she wondered what had been in the IV pouch, and if she was going to regret pulling it out of her vein.

_What if they don't find me until it's too late?_

She need not have worried, though, because only a few moments later she heard the opening of a door and footsteps. As they neared, she tried to turn to look, but her body was positively leaden. Hermione felt two pairs of hands on hers and was turned over slowly.

"Are you alright?"

Her eyes snapped towards the source and she stared, stunned. The wispy blonde hair, the porcelain skin, the haunting grey eyes—_no_.

"Not you," she moaned despairingly, shaking her head shallowly.

"I'm sorry, Granger." His frown was tight, but his tone held a sort of bitter sincerity that took her aback. "On three, Wanda."

"Wha—" she started, but when Malfoy reached _three, _she was being lifted and pain, _PAIN_, it felt like their hands were ripping through her flesh where they held her. She clenched her teeth together and hissed through them to keep from screaming.

"What were you trying to _do_?" the Medi-witch asked disapprovingly, fussing with the covers once Hermione had been placed back onto the bed. The emptiness she felt was beginning to concern her—she'd never experienced anything like it. It was like her very _essence _was injured.

_That's ridiculous, Hermione…_

"I… I was just—"

"Trying to get a look at your IV pouch," Malfoy supplied sharply; he wasn't pleased. He picked up the needle she had discarded and replaced it with a sterile one before reinserting it through her skin—less gently than he _could _have, in her opinion. He placed a sticking charm on it before looking at her seriously. "You _can't _keep trying to remove this, Hermione."

Keep _trying to remove it? I've only been awake for a few minutes!_

He held her chin in his fingers and tilted her face back and forth gingerly, barely dusting his fingertips over where she had hit the floor. She winced at the contact and pulled back, but he softly _shush_ed her and continued his examination. "It's going to swell."

"I don't feel right," Hermione said quietly. "Am I in St. Mungo's?"

He stole a glance back at the Medi-witch before raising a pale eyebrow at her. He closed his eyes and blew out air. "Granger, what's the last thing that you can remember?"

She scrunched her face in thought. She really didn't know, and she told him as much. He looked at Wanda again and motioned his head toward the door. The Medi-witch nodded and stood to leave.

"Malfoy?" Hermione's stomach dropped and she looked at him fearfully. "What's wrong?"

* * *

There was real panic in her eyes.

_How the hell am I supposed to answer that question?_

"Think, Granger. Where were you the last time that you were awake?"

She paused. Her lids had fallen a bit—she was _already _exhausted again—but she was lucid and wanting to talk, which meant that he couldn't delay explanation any longer. "My house. It was—_you _were there, weren't you? Yes, you wanted to give me the pain potion, I think…"

_Good. She hasn't lost too much, then._

"Nothing after that?"

She stared blankly at him. "Why aren't you answering me? I said that I don't feel right! I want to know what _happened_!"

"You don't recall waking up here, at St. Mungo's, before?"

"_Quit avoiding my question_!" she croaked out. Her voice was faint, but her temperament had at least survived. Merlin, he did _not _want to have to be the one to explain this to her. Delaying it was probably only helping to fray her nerves, though…

"You were attacked," he said finally. "Antonin Dolohov came to London. You came close to dying." Pause. "But you're on the mend now."

_That's a lie, Malfoy. You're not supposed to lie to patients._

She looked lost. "Dolohov? But…" she was silent for several moments, but he waited patiently for her to continue. "Was it the same curse that he used in the Department of Mysteries? It didn't feel like this the last time."

"No," he replied quietly. "We don't know what curse it is… Not yet, anyway."

She frowned. "But then… What did it _do_?"

"Your body started to shut down. Your immune system was compromised and your organ functions deteriorated. We're reversing the process now—"

"You missed something." The sudden vehemence of her voice took him aback and he faltered momentarily. "I feel different. I don't feel like _me—_something's _wrong!_"

He took a deep breath. "Okay, Granger. I'm going to explain everything to you, but I need you to stay calm, alright? There are some things that we need to discuss."

She did not look calm. She was _anything_ but calm. Thankfully, she allowed him to continue, but his head was swimming. Why was this so fucking _hard_? He'd done it a thousand times!

He decided the best approach was to get the worst of it out of the way first. "We couldn't reverse the deterioration with magic. In order to keep you alive, we had to use _vito mutato."_

The little colour that her complexion had clung to drained from her face and her eyes widened so much that he could almost see more white than brown. "No," she whispered, shaking her head adamantly. "You can't have."

"We haven't administered the full dose," he assured her, but as soon as he heard the words himself, he wasn't sure why he had figured that they would make it all better. "And you're very young—you have a good chance that there won't be any permanent damage from the potions."

"_NO!" _Hermione screamed, tears swelling from her eyes and down her sallow cheeks. She looked around the room for something and clutched at her side, seeming lost when her fingers only found the blanket. "My wand, I want my _wand_!"

"I can't give it to you. When Dolohov—"

"Y-you _have to!_" she shouted, trying to put on a face of fury, but her fear shone brightly enough, like a lighthouse through fog. "Wizarding law states that any witch or wizard in hospital is entitled to use their wand unless they are deemed psychologically unstable or they've been put… in…"

Her eyes had stopped on the heavy bolted door, and suddenly, all hope fell from her face.

"Isolation, yes," he finished quietly. "Your magic became unstable after you were attacked. I'm sorry, Granger."

He meant it.

Draco didn't know whether it was fortunate or unfortunate that she was so intelligent. He didn't have to explain to her what _vito mutato _was, nor magical quarantine, but that also meant that she immediately knew the ramifications of both—she was stripped of her magic and essentially incarcerated.

She fully lost her composure, and her wracking sobs echoed about the room. He stood there awkwardly, watching but unsure what to do. He winced at the way her lip trembled as she bit down on it and how her messy hair began to cling to the tear tracks on her cheeks, yet he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Two very unexpected things happened. First, he reached out to her and stroked her arm in a pathetic attempt to bring her some comfort.

Second, he felt her fingers running over _his _arm in response.

His nerves suddenly became alight with sensation and he looked up at her in surprise, only to see that her eyes were fixed downward. She continued to stroke at his wrist, despite the tears that dripped down her face. Curious, he looked down too, and a new feeling entirely engulfed him when he saw exactly what it was she'd been staring at.

She wasn't caressing him at all; her fingers were ghosting across the band that he wore on his forearm, and her eyes were fixed firmly on the sliver of black that peeked out from underneath it. His Dark Mark. She'd been staring at his fucking—

He jerked his arm back suddenly, Dolohov's earlier accusation ringing through his head. Her eyes instantly met his and she was frightened; blood was pounding in his ears and he didn't know why. He was panting, and his face was twisted into a snarl.

He forced composure on himself and he tugged the band back down. She seemed frozen and unable to take her eyes off of his.

"Yes?" he asked. She didn't move. "_WHAT, _Granger_?"_

She jumped and new tears erupted.

"I want out, Malfoy," she demanded, panic taking hold of her voice. "Let me out of here now!"

There was guilt, but there was also a drive for a sort of revenge that he couldn't explain, and that drive couldn't be ignored. The old part of him—the worst part of him—had to see her punished for an affront that he couldn't even name.

He stared at her, the same impassive stare that he always gave her. He stood, biting the inside of his cheek and cocking his head back slightly. "No can do, Granger."

And he was fully intending on leaving her there, frightened and alone, but her renewed sobs cut right through his momentary bout of cruelty. He faltered. He realized with an agonized groan that in an instant, he had snapped and let the whole façade fall to pieces. Potter would have him _lynched _for this. If anyone knew that he was considering leaving a quarantined patient without debriefing _or _emotional follow-up, he'd be pulled off of her case immediately—maybe even put under professional review.

What the _fuck _was he thinking?

He sighed. She looked so pathetic lying there, all thin and pale and shaking. This wasn't the know-it-all that he had grown up with, the one that he had hated for so long… _This_ was a very ill girl, and more importantly, someone who needed comfort more than anything. He pulled the lone chair in the room next to the bed and he placed his hand on her shoulder—Dark Mark well out of her line of sight—and rubbed small, (hopefully) soothing circles. She started to cry even harder, but she didn't pull away.

"Until we get this under control, you'll have to stay in this room," he said softly, deciding to get all of it out in the open now rather than hurting her over and over again with new information. "I'm going to be honest with you, Hermione. I've done dozens of tests, and none of them have given me an idea as to what this is. Luckily, Dolohov is awake, and the Aurors should be getting Veritaserum within the next couple of days at the very latest—interrogations are a bit more complicated with patients. Once he tells us what we're dealing with, we can hopefully get you off of the potionsas soon as possible."

He waited for her to comment on that, but she didn't, so he just kept going.

"It's going to take some time for you to get your strength back. We'll reintroduce solid foods as soon as we think that you can stomach them, and if things keep improving, you should be able to walk short distances unassisted in a few days or so. The regimen for _vito mutato _will be hard on you, but we'll help with as many of the side effects as we can. The most common tend to be dizziness, weakness of the muscles, suppressed appetite, headaches, nausea…" He stopped midway through the list of side effects when her sobbing became more ragged and helpless. "Granger, look at me." He tried to keep his voice firm. "I'm not going to leave you to rot in here. I'll figure this out and get you back to normal, okay?"

_Healers should avoid making promises to patients. To do so puts unrealistic expectations on both patient and Healer as to what the outcome of treatment will be. Instilling hope where recovery is not guaranteed is inappropriate and may result in extreme disappointment or anger should recovery not be possible._

She didn't say anything for a few minutes before she mumbled something that sounded vaguely like 'I'm sorry.'

He frowned. "What?"

"For staring," she murmured, her tears having finally ebbed.

"Merlin's beard, Granger," he muttered angrily. "I should be the one apologizing. Speaking to you that way is _not_ acceptable, and it won't happen again."

The words came easily off of his tongue, and it eased his mind to hear them. He sounded like a Healer again. Unemotional. The way he was supposed to be.

"It's fine," she said quietly. He never thought that he would see the day when he wished that Hermione would be more bossy and outspoken, but here he was. She had shrunk into a little mouse and it worried him. "Does it bother you? People looking at your Mark?"

Much later, Draco would realize that this moment represented something significant, and that he had been given an opportunity. Said opportunity, however, died along with his voice. He wasn't supposed to discuss things like that with patients, and he had crossed more than enough professional boundaries during this visit. More importantly, he _didn't bloody well want to talk about it._

He couldn't meet her eyes after that question, so he lowered his gaze. After a moment, she tugged the blanket up over her chest and tucked her free arm underneath, staring at him almost accusingly.

He glared back at her a bit incredulously. Even if he was idiotic enough to stare at a patient's breasts, it wasn't as if he could even _see_ the damn things through her gown!

_She is so _strange!

"Would you like a few minutes alone?" he asked eventually, trying to break up the awkward tension in the room.

She shrugged, though she wasn't looking at him anymore. Gods, this was worse than the crying. Watching her trying to hide her heartbreak made him more uneasy than having a front-row view of it. This was the part of the job he was worst at; dealing with the emotions of his patients. It was so damn _uncomfortable_.

He sighed. "You can still have visitors. Whoever you'd like to see tonight, I'll owl them and make sure they're here. Just say the word."

Her answer was immediate. "I'd like to see my parents."

_Oh, you bloody sodding prat._

If he could have kicked his own brain, he would have. He cleared his throat. "Uh, any _wizard. _We have to use protective charms for visitors. They don't bind to muggles, and we can't endanger anyone by allowing them in unwarded."

_Endanger _was a bad word, he knew it when he heard her suck in a breath sharply. He expected her to produce a fresh batch of tears, but she seemed to be detaching herself—her eyes were becoming distant and unfocused and she closed her mouth as if refusing to let any words escape from it.

"What about Potter and his wife?" he suggested gently. "Should I contact them?"

She shrugged again and said nothing, her eyes fixed in a downward cast. The speed at which she was disconnecting from her emotions was a bit alarming to him; he _knew _that she was devastated, but as quickly as she had become upset, she had buried it deep within herself so that he couldn't see.

"Is there anything that you want to talk about, Hermione?"

The Granger he knew at Hogwarts had worn her heart on her sleeve, and even before Dolohov attacked her, she had been open enough to tell him that she was having nightmares. That trust seemed to be gone now, as evidenced by her stony silence. Unfortunately for her, however, rapport didn't matter anymore, as she was his patient whether she liked it or not.

But he _had_ hoped that he wasn't the last person she wanted to see when she woke up.

"I'll give you some time to yourself," he said finally, pulling his hand away from her shoulder gently. She watched it go—she might have even looked mournful, but that was probably his imagination. "There's a call button next to your bed. If you need _anything_—food, someone to bring you to the toilet, if you want to ask me a question—don't hesitate to use it, alright?"

She nodded, and after a moment, she turned to him. Her eyes communicated pure exhaustion as she rubbed at them. "Could you bring me a mirror when you have a moment?"

His response was firm. "No. Not right now."

"But there isn't one in the washroom—at least, I can't see one over the sink."

_I know. I took it out_. "Granger, believe me when I tell you that it's only going to make things a thousand times worse to see yourself right now. It's not worth it. You look twice as good as you did yesterday, and in a few days, you'll be getting back to normal." _Hopefully_. "I'll bring one to you then."

She frowned, but if truth be told, he was glad that she did. It showed that he hadn't completely trampled her spirit.

"I don't think it's your decision whether or not I want to see myself," she huffed, glaring at him, but the effect was lost because her eyes were swollen with fatigue and crying.

"Unfortunately, it _is_ my decision. It's my responsibility to uphold your physical _and _emotional well-being as much as possible." He blew out air in frustration, feeling himself soften despite her contempt for him. "I'm sorry. I know this is unfair."

She gave him a look that said _like hell you do_, then she looked out of the window he had made. "Is it alright if I sleep again? I know I just got up, but…" A yawn punctuated her sentence.

"Of course," he said, giving her a half-hearted smile. "Whatever you need."

She nodded and closed her eyes, and within thirty seconds she was out cold. He stood and stretched—he was stiff from leaning over for so long—and checked her stats without disturbing her.

A curl of chestnut hair had fallen over her cheek and he just couldn't resist brushing it back. He watched her for a moment, her small chest rising and falling with each breath, her lips swollen from biting them as she cried, and suddenly he felt inexplicably angry.

He walked out of the room abruptly and didn't stop until he reached Dolohov's unit and he'd bolted the door behind him. He knew that he'd get the answers within the next forty-eight hours, but he just could _not _wait that long.

The Death Eater was staring at the ceiling and didn't make any acknowledgement that Draco was there.

"Dolohov."

"Don't you have anything better to do?" the Death Eater snapped, eyes still facing upward. "I thought you were the busiest Healer in London."

"I _am. Therefore_, I don't want to waste anymore bloody time with your games!"

"What, is your cock hurting for some of your Mudblood's twat?" he said uninterestedly, sneering at Draco. "Not my problem. I got her unconscious on the floor, you know, you could've just taken her there—"

_"Legilimens," _he hissed, seizing the opportunity while Dolohov was distracted. He was instantly sucked into his subconscious and he began to root around for the memory in question. Despite the Death Eater trying to tug him out of his mind, he located it quickly enough and he delved in.

He saw everything through Dolohov's eyes—each predatory glance at Granger, every filthy thought that crossed his mind, it was all there. He stayed patient until the moment he was waiting for: Granger rebounded the curse and Dolohov fell, he glared at Hermione and hatred burned through his mind. Finally, he—

He didn't do anything.

There was no incantation, no curse, not even a _thought _of one.

Draco was so caught off guard that he was immediately ripped out of Dolohov's mind and back into reality.

"What—I don't understand—"

"Damn, you found my dirty secret a little early," he said with pure glee, his cracked lips stretched into a grotesque smile. "I guess I _didn't _try to kill the bitch. Oops."

Reeling, Draco grabbed at his hair and ran from the room with only Dolohov's taunting laughter to accompany him.

* * *

_A/N: God, I really hate Dolohov. I wrote this and I still hate him._

_Please review ;)_


	9. Chapter 9: Rumination

_A/N: At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I am very, VERY sorry this took so long. Thank you everyone for being SO patient._

_As an apology, I am posting two (!) chapters instead of just one - the need to write struck me and I managed to crank out a chapter and a half in about a day, which is huge for me. _

_Feedback makes me very happy. Oh so happy._

* * *

Panic could only last so long.

It had happened again.

Logic fled from her brain and all she could think was that she was trapped again, trapped and she couldn't get out, trapped and powerless.

But she was too exhausted to be afraid right now.

Instead, she laid in her bed, quiet as a mouse, tears leaking from her already stinging eyes. She wanted her wand. She wanted to go _home_.

Malfoy's words bounced around in her head like a cruel taunt, telling her that she couldn't leave, telling her that her body would continue to betray her. He had promised her that she would be alright. How many people had told her that?

_It's okay, Mione. Don't you worry about it, alright? We'll make it through this. We always have, haven't we? _

She moaned a bit. No, she couldn't trust a promise.

It was all too much. Being locked in, being under Malfoy's control, being _literally _powerless.

She couldn't take it.

She needed a distraction.

_And what _possible _distraction can you make when you're lying in bed? _

Malfoy had said that she might be able to walk in a few days. Maybe, just maybe, she could prove him wrong. What _else_ was she supposed to do, anyway?

Slowly, like before, she shifted to the edge of the bed, but she was much more aware of herself this time. Very carefully, she slid herself up and grabbed hold of her IV stand as tightly as she could. As soon as she put her weight on her feet, the stand wheeled to the side and she slammed into the wall. She managed to stay vertical and she grit her teeth together as she took a shaky step forward, using the wall and the stand to support herself. Her heart was hammering, though she couldn't tell if it was from exertion or anxiety.

A horrid feeling bubbled in her stomach and she doubled over, clutching around her midsection in a vain attempt to stop the nausea. Her knee hit the floor hard and she could barely brace herself with the wall as she crumpled down. She was going to be sick, and she couldn't reach the bloody call button.

Hermione heard the door open.

"I _specifically _remember telling you that you have a call button to use if you needed anything," came the familiar, annoyed voice of Draco Malfoy. His footsteps came closer and too quickly he was beside her, about to crouch down. "You're going to become one big bruise if you keep—Granger?"

Instantly upon seeing her, his mouth snapped shut and bent down to her. He started to hook his arm under her knees, but she weakly shoved him away, suddenly becoming _very _aware that she was wearing literally nothing but a hospital gown and socks. Patient or not, Draco Malfoy was trying to pick her up while she wasn't wearing any knickers.

That was a _horrifying _thing.

"_No," _she growled. He ceased for a second, frowning, then went in again.

"NO!" she insisted, more loudly this time. "Just let me—do it—_myself_!"

He rolled his eyes and glared at her impatiently. She struggled to stand, but her body was having none of it. Her legs felt like twigs beneath her and she had become lightheaded with fatigue, and she feebly slid back to the floor. She was frustrated and humiliated, but she would not cry in front of him again.

He presented his forearms to her; the black fabric covering his Dark Mark caught her eye once again. For the first time in years, _her _mark was openly exposed too, but he didn't seem interested in her scar, even when she moved to cover it with her hand.

"If you hold my arms, we can stand up together. Is that alright?"

She nodded cautiously and latched onto him—it was better than falling in front of him like an idiot again. He rose slowly, watching her carefully as she labored to rise with him. The sense of control, whether it was genuine or not, felt good to her. Her legs trembled under her body and she ended up leaning almost all of her weight into him, awkwardly positioning herself between his chest and the crook of his elbow.

"Malfoy," she groaned urgently, "I think I'm going to be sick."

He nodded quickly and wrapped his arm around her middle. She silently let him take the brunt of her movement, falling into the folds of his white Healer's robe. Under the layers of disinfectant, Hermione could smell something spicy with a warm undertone of tobacco, which was surprisingly pleasant.

She was sniffing Draco Malfoy. Absurd.

Carefully, he pulled her back up onto her bed. Then he was putting a bin in her hands, though she didn't know where it had come from. One large hand scooped her hair back and held it while the other splayed firmly between her shoulders. He said nothing as she leaned forward, desperate to just be sick but falling short. His thumb moved up and down encouragingly as she rocked forward. After several minutes, the urge to retch subsided and she took a few gulping breaths.

"The nausea will get better," he assured her. He smoothed her hair down as he released it. "Your body just needs some time to adjust to the potions. But _please _stop trying to move around without any assistance. You're going to seriously hurt yourself."

"I didn't _want_ this," she replied bitterly as she watched him through achy eyes. She was still hunched over; she didn't even have enough energy to sit up.

He looked her up and down. "I know that. If you decide it's too much, it's always within your rights to refuse treatment." He stared at her lips as she sucked in her breath. It felt surreal—knowing that there was a genuine choice to let herself die, right now, at twenty-five years old. His eyes flicked back up to meet hers and he sighed. His frown was deep. "But we don't need to talk about that right now."

Draco aided her in sitting up and getting her legs up on the bed, doing almost all of the work himself but letting her create the illusion that she wasn't being totally dependent on him. He was gentle and his hands were warm when they brushed her skin. He really could be an excellent Healer, loathe as she was to admit it.

She hated him for it.

Hermione felt stronger now than she had before—emotionally, anyway. She wanted him to yell again, she _wanted _him to foul up, because that way she could yell right back and blame him for everything. She was so _hurt,_ but there was nowhere for her to channel it, no one to take the force of her distress.

"Talk to me, Granger," he said (in a tone that was _dangerously_ close to sounding bored) as he began to jot something down into her chart. Somehow, that simple sentence undid her and she flushed with anger, shaking her head as she fought back tears.

And then Malfoy's mouth was moving, but there was no sound. Suddenly, everything went brown—there was a burst of light and a _pop_, then a shock of pins and needles swam down her body. It was almost as if an illuminated bulb had exploded right in her face. There was a loud ringing and Malfoy was still standing over her, his face serious but surprisingly unconcerned.

"Alright?" he asked, raising his voice over whatever was making the noise. Her brain felt like it was _banging _against her skull.

"What just happened?"

She couldn't help the panic in her voice.

"It's the reactivity that I told you about earlier," he shouted, reaching for his stethoscope but realizing that it had vanished. Somehow, so had many of the other objects in the room. "_Bugger!" _

She could barely hear him over the blaring. He sat back in the lone chair and folded his arms, staring up at the ceiling impatiently. After about a minute, the sound ceased and the objects reappeared with a series of '_pop_'s.

"The room detects when you have a surge in power," he explained, taking back his stethoscope and breathing over the drum to warm it up a bit. "Sit up, please."

"Does it also detect my every _movement_?" she demanded waspishly, but she did as he asked and straightened her back. Her body shook.

"Why would you say that?" he asked distractedly, tugging at the highest knot on the side of her gown. Her hands instinctively flew to hold up the fabric, but he blocked them with his own. "Relax, Granger. Just keep your arms at your sides."

She only _really_ relaxed when she realized he wasn't letting the top of the gown droop too low. "Because it seems like every time I so much as _blink_ you're running in here," she replied, answering his earlier question.

He raised an eyebrow at her before returning his attention to examining her. "All of our rooms are equipped with fall-detection charms. Apparently, you just fall near as often as you blink." Despite trying to warm it, the stethoscope felt frigid against her skin. She opened her mouth to protest, but he shushed her. "No talking. Deep breaths."

Draco did an extensive examination, making her follow lights with her eyes, testing her reflexes, taking her blood pressure. He was methodical and efficient, though there were a couple of uncharacteristic pauses where he just stared at the area of her body that he was about to touch.

"Well, you're not reacting nearly as badly to the surges as before, so the potions are doing their job," he said finally, setting down his equipment and checking his watch. "Are you thirsty?"

She was, and she told him so. He conjured a cup with a lid over it and a straw stuck through, like the colas Hermione would get at a muggle drive-through. She looked up at him skeptically. "I don't need a straw, Malfoy."

"Humour me," he said, without any humour whatsoever. He brought it to her lips and she drew up the water greedily, wrapping her hands loosely over the cup to take it from him. He seemed about to release it when she tried to lift her head closer—but she couldn't do it.

Her head was too heavy. She was too tired.

Her hands fell back into her lap and she sipped the last of her water, the extent of her debilitation hitting her like a ton of bricks. She couldn't drink on her own, at least not after her little walking escapade.

She had freed an irate dragon, once.

Malfoy was studying her face. "I've told Potter that you're awake, and he's planning on coming by tonight. Are you up for having visitors?"

It seemed like a ridiculous question—why wouldn't see want to see Harry?—but then, it wasn't so ridiculous, was it? Hermione had never felt _less _capable of entertaining company.

"Are you going to be here when they come?"

She didn't know why she asked that question.

He gave her a confused look. "Uh… Well, he always comes at seven, and that's when my shift ends today."

"Right," she said quickly, suddenly feeling very overwhelmed. "Yes, of course I'd like to see Harry."

He raised an eyebrow, speaking volumes to her without even opening his mouth.

"It's _fine, _Malfoy," Hermione snapped.

"No more than fifteen minutes," he instructed. He cut her off when she opened her mouth to retort."You've been through a lot today, Granger. I _don't _want you to overextend."

His tone was firm, and his grey eyes were burning into hers.

"Just because I'm in here doesn't mean you get to control me," she retaliated, creating argument for absolutely no reason other than just wantingto.

He didn't relent. "The whole 'Healer's orders' concept seems to be _completely_ lost on you."

She glared at him, but finally bit out "fine, fifteen minutes."

He nodded. "Are you cold?"

"Hm?" she asked, caught off guard by the question. "No, why?"

He looked up at her from her ever-growing file, halting his note-writing to speak. "You've been keeping your arms crossed."

"Oh," Hermione murmured, heat creeping up her cheeks. She hadn't realized she'd been doing it—it was just a reflex when her forearms were bare. She relaxed a bit, but kept her hand clamped just above where her IV sat. "No… I'm fine."

This time, he _did_ look at where her scar was, and she didn't like the look that he gave her afterward. She _especially _didn't like that he surreptitiously scratched a few more words in.

"Are you sure there's nothing you want to discuss with me, Hermione?"

"Will you _stop _asking me that?" she snapped. She hated when he used her first name; it always seemed to accompany when he stopped treating her like a person and started treating her like a syndrome. "If I had anything I _wanted _to talk to you about, I'd be talking about it, wouldn't I?"

He was crossing lines that she didn't want crossed, particularly not with _him_.

Draco nodded, adding more writing and acting the ultra-calm-detached Healer, which drove her absolutely mad.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," she mumbled, sitting back into her pillows and staring out the window. It looked cold outside.

"Do what?"

Hermione was going to say _write in that thing every time I speak, like I'm some sort of bloody case study, _but she didn't have the energy, because she knew that he would just follow with more probing questions. She kept her gaze on the frost that was crawling up the windowpanes.

"Do what, Hermione?"

"Forget it," she said quietly, the edge gone from her voice. "Just… nevermind."

He watched her for a long time before speaking. "I'm working at Pundari's tomorrow. Jesse will be monitoring you… He's still a student. If you don't like him, just ask for Wanda, the medi-witch. She's the best on the floor."

He stood to leave.

"Will you…" She swallowed heavily. "So, you won't be in at all tomorrow?"

Draco didn't even blink. How he could make his voice so impassive was beyond her. "Would you like me to come in?"

"No," she answered immediately. "I was just wondering."

He took in a sharp breath before giving a solitary nod and turning to leave. His hand was over the handle when she remembered something.

"Wait! Did you speak to Dolohov? Do you know anything more?"

Draco paused fractionally and didn't look back at her. "No, I didn't. You'll know as soon as I do, Granger."

She thanked him, but he acted as if he did not hear.

* * *

"We need to talk."

Harry looked annoyed. "About what?"

"Dolohov," Draco said quickly, his voice hushed. He had promised his parents that he'd join them for dinner tonight, and he wanted to get out as soon as possible. "I need you to—what are _you _doing here?" he demanded, seeing an unwelcome pair of blue eyes.

Ron frowned as he finished rounding the corner. "Well, you said that once Hermione was conscious, we could ask—"

"Not_ today,_" Draco breathed in exasperation.

_Politely, you moron! _

He cleared his throat and started again. "Weasley, I _swear _I'm not trying to put you out, it's just that she's already a wreck and a breath away from meltdown as is. Her recovery is still in the fragile stages, and I can tell you that she is _not _in a state to make any sort of decision. I would really appreciate if you could wait just a couple more days… Please."

"Yeah," Ron whispered, a startled look on his face. "Yeah, alright. Whatever's best for Mione, I guess."

Draco nodded. He never thought he'd see the day when he preferred a conversation with Weaselbee over Potter. Then again, there were a lot of things that had happened recently that he never would have predicted…

"You said you needed something from me?" Harry cut in, though not unkindly. He hadn't planned to ask Weasley as well, but there was no way around it now.

"I used legilimency on Dolohov," he admitted. No sense in beating around the bush.

There was a pause where Potter obviously expected Draco to continue. "_And?_ What did you see?"

"Nothing," Draco replied matter-of-factly. "He used _Veloces duriam, _fell, and then there was nothing. He was incapacitated by the spell—he didn't even use silent magic. _Nothing_."

Harry frowned, blinked quickly in succession. "I don't believe you."

"I don't really care," he snarled back, "because you'll find out when you administer Veritaserum on him tomorrow. But I need you to sign off saying that you approved me to use legilimency on him today."

"Why didn't you just wait?" Ron asked. "You knew that we're coming in, and we'd get the same answers."

They were both staring at Draco.

"Because I'm _impatient_," he said sharply. "I don't bloody understand what you two think goes on in my head. Why _else_?"

Harry gave him an _I don't know, why don't you tell me? _– sort of stare, but the redhead spoke before Draco could snap.

"Sure, whatever. I'll bring the paperwork tomorrow."

Potter whipped back to glare at his friend, but Draco was positively beaming with smug satisfaction for having the Golden boy's friend side with _him. _

"_Well,_" Ron said defensively, "like he said, we're still gonna question Dolohov tomorrow, it's not as if Malfoy's somehow getting him off the hook for anything, is it? The only thing we'd accomplish by not signing the papers would be getting him suspended from St. Mungo's, and then who'd be looking after Mione?"

"You should listen to your friend, Potter," Draco piped in, "he's very astute."

"Don't push your luck," Ron snapped, and Draco's smirk immediately vanished from his lips. "If I find out you've been lying…"

"I wasn't."

"So, then what?" Harry asked impatiently.

Draco blinked, unsure of what he meant.

"If Dolohov didn't do it," he clarified, "what does that mean for Hermione? Did you tell her?"

He shook his head. "Hermione is too agitated right now. She's been distressed since she first woke up. She keeps trying to get out of bed when she can't support her own weight, and she's tried to rip out her IV twice already. I had to put a sticking charm on her to make sure she doesn't do it again." Draco blew out air harshly. "I'm hoping that seeing you will do her some good, maybe help her calm down. We'll see how your interview with Dolohov goes tomorrow and discuss from there how to approach it with her."

"She didn't take the news well, then?" Ron asked sullenly.

Draco gave him a sharp look. "Would _you_?"

Harry waved his hand to halt the bickering that was about to ensue. "What does Dolohov mean for her _treatment_?"

"It means we start from scratch," Draco said firmly. "If it wasn't Dolohov, it _has _to be whatever was causing her pain before. She seems to think it has to do with stress, but massive organ failure seems a _bit_ much for a stress disorder. I don't know. I need more information."

"You seem to be taking an _awfully _long time to figure anything out," Harry growled.

"Well, maybe I'd work faster if I didn't have your bleeding _blackmail hanging over my head_," he growled right back.

"Well, I don't trust you, and that is _my _friend lying in—"

"Let me guess, you don't trust me because I'm a _Malfoy_?" Draco asked sarcastically. "According to you, Malfoy's operate in whatever way advantages them most—"

"According to _fact_," Ron corrected, crossing his arms.

"Will you let me finish?" he hissed. "If I'm working to my own advantage, Granger will come out fit as a fiddle if it's possible. Think about it. She's one of the most well-known women in our world. If she dies or gets rendered a muggle under _my _care, I'll be the one taking the blame for it, regardless of the cause. I _want _her to get better."

Harry was silent, frowning. His redheaded friend sucked on his teeth uncomfortably.

"And why," Draco continued, his voice embarrassingly desperate, "is it so hard to believe that I might just actually _care _for my patients and want to do well by them?"

He thought he might be getting somewhere. The look in Harry's eyes spelled confusion, which was a step up from suspicion. He looked like he was about to speak when Lady Potter turned up. "Everything okay? We're all warded now, can we go in?"

"Er—yes," Draco replied distractedly, wanting to hear whatever it was Potter was going to say. "Uh, keep it short, no more than fifteen minutes. She's exhausted. Don't discuss her condition unless she brings it up. Nothing that might shock her, even if you think it's positive." He paused and drummed his fingers on his robe. "I think that's all."

Draco hightailed it out as soon as he could, and he tried not to think about the day as he got ready for dinner with his parents. But his mind strayed; it always did.

_"Are you going to be here when they come?"_

* * *

As he chewed on the tip of his asparagus, Draco thought over the fact that Granger always had her scar covered.

Every time he'd seen her, she had long sleeves on. Now that she was in a hospital gown, she covered it with her hands. When she'd given him that strange look, she didn't think that he was staring at her tits; she thought that he was staring at the _scar_. It was odd that she was still so conscious about it—he hardly ever spared a thought about his dark mark (until she showed up, anyway), and he wouldn't even bother covering if it wouldn't make some of patients uneasy. It was a relic of the past.

It didn't define him.

He decided that he couldn't get into Granger's mind as well as he'd like. He had a talent for that kind of thing—an essential trait for any decent Healer—but she was a bit more difficult to sort. Hermione was clearly devastated, that much she couldn't hide, but there was something going on in her head that he couldn't get at, and it bothered him. Like why she _insisted _on getting out of bed despite knowing that she wouldn't be able to fucking do it. He couldn't even blame it on her being groggy—she was completely clearheaded this time and seemed totally aware of what she was doing as well as the consequences.

"You're very quiet tonight, Draco," his mother commented, primly setting her napkin into her lap. Her plate was clean, as was his father's. Draco looked down at his own, still half-covered with food. He was _hungry, _too.

He needed to shut his fucking brain off.

"Work was exhausting today," he replied honestly, spearing more asparagus onto his fork. "I've got a difficult case right now."

"Is it the Granger girl?" she asked as the house elves cleared their china away. "The _Prophet _did a big story on that brute Dolohov, there was some speculation that he had attacked her."

"Great," he moaned. "What else did the article say?"

"Nothing of importance. Everyone seems tight-lipped about what she was actually admitted for." She paused and furrowed her pale brows. "They probably don't know. It's all gossip, anyway."

He couldn't pretend that he was surprised that the attack had reached the papers, but he certainly wasn't pleased. Even if Potter didn't go blabbing that Draco was at the scene of the attack, the pressure on him would be considerable once the public found out that _he _was the attending Healer of Britain's heroine.

"I can't say if it's her or not, you know that, mum," he said half-heartedly, though he knew it was useless. He'd _tried _to keep it confidential, anyway—there wasn't much he could do if his mother was guessing. "But anyway, it's just been a frustrating case. I can't figure it out."

"Well, if it _is _her, I hope you're giving her the best care you can," Narcissa said dismissively. "The wizarding world would be rather crestfallen to lose their boldest witch."

Draco couldn't tell if his mother was being complimentary or sarcastic. Lucius, who had been rather chatty up until that point, had now visibly stiffened.

"It's miracle enough that she got through the War alive," he muttered. "Astounding, when you think—"

"_Must _we," Lucius interrupted tightly, hissing through clenched teeth, "talk about such things over _dinner_?"

Narcissa eyed Draco's father suspiciously. "Something wrong, Lucius?"

_Like it's some sodding mystery, _Draco thought with some annoyance. The senior Malfoy wouldn't dare voice his contempt for muggle-borns anymore, but Draco severely doubted that his father had the dramatic change of heart that he'd claimed he had at the end of the War—or _any _change of heart whatsoever.

"I simply don't wish to discuss a wretched subject like war over a family meal."

"Right," Draco muttered, breaking away from his father's murderous gaze. It was an unspoken rule that the War and anything to do with it—Death Eaters, Azkaban, Voldemort—were not to be discussed, and Lucius was clearly displeased that he'd broken said rule. "What did you two get up to today?"

His mother drawled on about Pansy Parkinson's upcoming wedding, which inevitably led to the typical '_you're not even _trying _to find a suitable wife_' admonishing. In pureblood circles, children were meant to be wedded and bedded shortly after coming of age.

He'd gotten half of that done, anyway.

Draco was supposed to have wed Astoria Greengrass, but her father had called off the arrangement following the War—rather, following the Malfoy's fall from grace. It wasn't just Astoria he'd lost then; Blaise, Daphne and Pansy suddenly became strangers to him. They hadn't been implicated with Death Eaters, and no one wanted to be associated with his murderous turncoat family. The only friend who stayed by him was Theo Nott, whose father now sat in a cell in Azkaban. But Theo soon relocated to France, and Draco didn't see much of him these days.

Needless to say, he hadn't fulfilled his duty to produce an heir. After Draco's acquittal, with the family fortune reinstated, Astoria had suddenly reappeared, but he had no interest in a stuck-up girl who had nothing better to talk about than shoes.

"What about your Healing partner?" his father prodded. "She's a beautiful woman, Draco—"

"Not this again," Draco groaned. "For the _last _time, I don't have _time _to carry on a relationship with a girl! _Any _girl!"

"And yet you seem to have all the time in the world to bring them to your _bed_," Lucius said crisply.

He rolled his eyes, but he refused to acknowledge the subject any further—and yet his brain had suddenly kicked into overdrive.

_"Are you going to be here when they come?"_

The look on her face when he'd said he'd be at Pundari's.

His heart pounding in his ears, the odd stirring in his stomach.

Furiously, Draco scooted his chair backwards and excused himself from the table. A cigarette was already between his lips by the time he reached the door.


	10. Chapter 10: A line in the sand

_A/N: Let the fall begin._

_Reviews please =]_

* * *

"Clothes, slippers, toothbrush, comb… Anything else?" Ginny asked, rushing to jot down items onto the piece of parchment. "No books?"

"I want to focus on getting out of bed," Hermione explained, yawning. "If I have books to lounge around with, there's not as much motivation."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at that, but chose not to comment. "Right. Time for bed, then. We'll be back tomorrow, keep yourself rested and don't overdo it."

"You sound like your mother," Hermione chided, smiling. Harry was already tucking her quilt up over her chest and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

Ginny grimaced. "Don't say that. I'll be bringing her round, you know, and then you'll be begging to have _my _nagging back." She bent down to give Hermione's shoulders a soft squeeze—it was as close as she could get to receive a hug while her body was still so tender. "Thank you for hanging in. I knew you would."

Hermione felt content as she watched her best friends leave through half-closed eyes. The visit had been much more uplifting than she'd expected. Harry had given her a very long, warm hug as soon as he got through the door and he'd brought Bertie Botts and chocolate frogs, just like he used to when she was in the infirmary at Hogwarts. He had been a bit subdued for the rest of his time there, but Ginny filled in with gossip about Padma Patil's affair with a high-profile, _much _older wizard. No mention of the fact that she was magic-less and quarantined. It felt very… Normal.

Hermione liked that.

* * *

_I'm going to bin this bloody thing_, Ginny brooded, slamming her hand down on the blaring alarm clock. Her brain screamed in protest as she thought about pulling the covers down. She lifted her head from the pillow and glanced over at her husband, who was snoring lightly and didn't seem to have been disturbed in the least. Ginny growled and threw the comforter off of her body, stomping out towards the kitchen. She stole a look back at Harry, who shifted slightly before contentedly snuggling against his pillow.

She glared at him.

Her generous and loving mood from last night had not carried over during her three-hour bout of unsatisfying sleep. The three of them had returned together from St. Mungo's in better spirits than they'd been in weeks. Ginny fixed them each up with a mug of butterbeer and the biscuits her mother had sent her home with after dinner at the Burrow. It was already getting to be late, so she padded off to bed soon after. However, before long, the two of them had wound up quite drunk and loudly reminiscing about the Hogwarts days. She knew that she should have told them to be quiet, or even to put a _muffilato _charm over themselves (though she didn't think of it at the time), but it had been so relieving to hear the two of them finally sounding happy again that she didn't bother. Besides, since the wedding Ron hardly ever slept over anymore, and in Ginny's opinion, Harry could use the break in routine. Therefore, she had laid there awake until the wee hours of the morning, quietly content with listening to their laughter.

When 6 o'clock rolled in and she had to drag herself to quidditch practice, however, her mindset about their late-night giggling had decidedly shifted. Tired and irritated, she stalked through the living room and saw her brother sprawled across the sofa, who was not snoring nearly as lightly as Harry had been. She narrowed her eyes, summoned a metal bowl and spoon with her wand and levitated it directly above Ron's face before commanding the kitchenwares to smash together obnoxiously. Her brother flew up in panic, crashing into the bowl and falling to the floor in a cacophony of metal and screaming.

"Fuck wussat for?" Ron panted, wide-eyed, before he tried furiously to untangle himself from the quilt. She felt a wave of calm wash over her as she watched him struggle.

"Time to get up," she said cheerily. Ron scowled at her with a dark glare before giving the brooding over to a long stretch accompanying a yawn.

"And you wonder why I don't bloody come over anymore," he muttered, half-heartedly throwing a cushion at her as Harry emerged from the bedroom. "What's for breakfast?"

"I don't know, _Ronald_," Ginny answered in a sugary-sweet voice, shoving the spoon into her brother's hands and an apron into Harry's. "Surprise me."

She sauntered back towards the bathroom and let the door slam behind her. She could hear some exchange of talk between her brother and husband, but she wasn't really listening, and soon the patter of water against the tile drowned them out, anyway.

Ginny stepped into the shower and frowned as the water fell over her. It had been a hard couple of weeks for all of them; Hermione's hospitalization weighed heavy over them like a noxious fog, and the fact that Dolohov laid one door over from their friend did nothing to ease anyone's nerves. She thought that Harry—likely Ron as well—needed a couple of days' rest from work, but neither were allowed any reprieve because of the sudden appearance of a Death Eater. Now, they were overworked, worried and angry.

Each of them had their different way of coping. Ginny's was to remain calm and emotionally detached. It was how she had grown up; with a brood of brothers who would tease her mercilessly for crying and a mother who was about as useful as a wet sponge in (most) times of crisis, she hadn't had much choice.

Ginny decided that Harry had a particular, unique brand of brooding that was all his own. He had always seemed to feel that his grief was singular and incomprehensible to others. Predictably, he had retreated in on himself when Hermione was brought in; she managed to get him to talk eventually, but she knew that he was giving her a surface explanation of the goings on in his head.

Ron's method was to sputter nervous ramblings and succumb easily to rage when it came his way. He was quieter than usual with this particular situation, and Ginny knew it was because he was plagued with guilt. He'd never apologized to Hermione—_fully _apologized, not just about Sarah—and as a result, he couldn't be at her side while she was dying. Their reconciliation was something Ron craved deeply, but her idiot brother had too much pride to acknowledge the real betrayal:

_Weasley Blames Adultery on Granger; Says Ex-Girlfriend 'Damaged'_

_Of course she's damaged, _Ginny had thought at the time, _We _all_ are_. No one had survived the War, not really. Not even Ronald, who had never _really_ been at the mercy of the Death Eaters.

No one knew exactly what happened that day in the study at the Malfoy Manor; Harry and Ron had both mentioned that there was a stretch of silence so long between _crucios _that they had thought that Hermione was dead. Ron had had to drag her back to Dobby because she wouldn't respond to his voice despite being fully conscious.

Hermione had never spoken about that day. No one ever asked why she used to wake up screaming in the night.

* * *

Antonin Dolohov seemed eager to get out of his hospital cell, even though he must have known that meant the Dementor's Kiss.

Despite his practice in Azkaban, it seemed that he still wasn't skilled at the art of confinement. The medi-witches and wizards told Harry that he was unrelenting in trying to loosen his restraints, and he'd taken to screaming incessantly any time someone entered the room.

"Have fun," a portly and stern-looking witch muttered, slamming and locking the door behind her.

_Right, then. _

"Saint Potter himself!" Dolohov shouted. "My, _my_, I imagine you're angry about the Mudblood bitch, hm?"

It was their job as Aurors to remain impassive, but Ron's red ears gave him away. They had Prewett with them, an Auror with seniority over both of them. Harry had been assigned the questioning, and older Auror was only acting as a supervisor.

"Dolohov, do you know what charges are being brought against you?" Harry began. When the Death Eater scowled, he ran the accusations off—there were three minutes' worth—and instructed Ron to administer the Veritaserum.

Dolohov's glare was murderous, but he answered each question automatically once the potion had taken effect. They began with the older charges—back from the War—and worked their way up to the attack on Hermione.

"Why did you return to Great Britain?"

"To find Hermione Granger," he replied instantly. Harry hadn't expected that would be the _sole _reason he came back, but he didn't allow himself to falter.

"And what were your intentions once you found Hermione Granger?"

"I planned to kidnap her, torture her, maybe fuck her, I hadn't decided yet. Kill her eventually." This time, Dolohov was smiling. The Veritaserum forced the words, but it seemed that he was happy to give them anyway.

"Why did you choose Hermione as your sole target?"

"I blame her for my imprisonment and my exile, and I don't think she deserves to live among other wizards because of her impure blood."

Harry sneered a bit at that. He hadn't heard supremacist talk like that for years, and now that the threat of those words was gone, Dolohov just sounded pathetic, not to mention crazy—which he was.

"What happened when you entered Hermione Granger's home?"

Dolohov's account was fairly similar to the one Draco had surmised. He admitted to the attacks, but the final one was before Hermione fell.

"Did you attack Hermione Granger once _Veloces diruam _had rebounded to you?"

"No."

The next question seemed pointless, then. "Did you cause any harm to her once you were incapacitated?"

"I don't know."

All three Aurors looked at each other. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I don't know if I caused Hermione Granger any harm once I was incapacitated."

There was a reason the questions were pre-written; Veritaserum could only elicit the most straightforward truthful answer, subtleties and implied questions were a no-go. Harry tried not to show his frustration. "Why do you think that you could have harmed her if you didn't attack her?"

"Hermione Granger was harmed directly after she rebounded my curse. It's an odd coincidence if it is one."

_Odd indeed. _"Do you know what caused Hermione's injury?"

"No."

"Do you have a plausible explanation for her injury?"

"No."

Ron swore under his breath. The senior Auror began to pack his things—that was the final question.

"Was Draco Malfoy involved in your plan to harm Hermione Granger?" he asked quickly.

"No." Dolohov's face was clearly confused at the question.

Prewett glared at Harry, also unsure of what was going on. "Potter—"

"To your knowledge, does Draco Malfoy have any intention to harm Hermione Granger in any way?" Harry demanded, before he could be cut off.

"No."

"_Enough," _the senior Auror hissed. "This interrogation is finished." He grabbed Harry's arm and tugged him out of the room impatiently. He held up the transcript of the interrogation in his hand. "I have to deliver this to the Ministry, and you had _better _be waiting in my office when I return. I hope you have a damn good explanation for your behaviour, Potter."

* * *

Hermione tried not to wince as the apprentice Healer poked and prodded. He'd obviously had little practice, and he had even _less _skill. She chalked it up to anxiety.

"How are you feeling this evening?" Jesse asked, digging two fingers into her back, feeling for Merlin-knows-what.

"Fine," she lied flatly. She felt more alert today, but the aches in her body were much more acute because of it. Her falls hadn't helped any. It felt like her knees were being whacked with a baseball bat over and _over _again—not that that would deter her. "Can I try walking?"

Jesse studied her chart, biting his lip. He was good-looking in a boyish way, even though he might have been older than she was. He had a cute, nervous smile and was lean with short, wavy chestnut hair. _Too bad looks don't translate to Healing ability._

"No," he said finally, "Healer Malfoy wrote that you're to be on bed rest until tomorrow, other than to be assisted to the loo. He says you took a couple of falls."

She _hmphed _and folded her arms over her chest. "I'm not going to fall again."

He gave her an apologetic smile. "Are you hungry?"

_Textbook diversion tactic. _She'd indulge him anyway. "Not even a little. I suppose I should eat something, though."

Jesse looked satisfied. "Great. I'll send for Wanda to get you started with some soup. Do you think you could handle chowder? It's higher in calories, I want to get as many in you as I can."

"Sure," she replied, smiling politely. He nodded and headed for the door, and once again, Hermione was alone. She'd had a decently long visit with Neville and Luna earlier in the evening, but Harry and Ginny were conspicuously absent. When she asked about it, Neville spluttered something about them both working late, which she knew wasn't true, but she didn't want to pry. It was good to see Neville and Luna, but she had been looking forward to something more substantial than Neville's anxious ramblings and Luna's… aloofness.

She rubbed the spots that the Healer-in-training had jabbed at. She missed Malfoy.

* * *

It was clear early in the day that Draco was going to develop a migraine.

Evidently, Dolohov's interview had gone as planned, and now that he was in custody, his crimes were fair game for the papers to exploit. Naturally, someone had leaked to someone else that the Death Eater was indeed the trigger for Granger getting sent into hospital, and yet someone _else _had confirmed that Draco was the acting Healer on her case. It was going to reach the public eventually, but that didn't keep his mood from souring. The paparazzi would be unrelenting now, and because they'd confirmed Dolohov didn't injure her, he would have to have _another _grueling discussion with Granger.

Then, when he arrived at St. Mungo's, a goddamn _Auror _was in his office.

"What's this about?" Draco asked, barely managing to keep his tone of voice civil.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Healer Malfoy, but I wanted to catch you up on the situation with Dolohov," the Auror replied—Prewett, according to the badge he flashed. "As you may have heard, he has been transferred from St. Mungo's to a holding cell awaiting trial. Our interview under Veritaserum revealed that he was not the direct cause of Miss Granger's injury, nor does he know what caused it."

He nodded, already aware of all that. "Yes. I found that when I used legilimency."

Prewett gave a single, curt nod and spoke solemnly. "Healer Malfoy, do you know of any reason why anyone may have suspected you of intending to harm Hermione Granger?"

Draco's blood turned fiery. _I'm going to kill that sodding twat. _He couldn't allow himself to betray his anger. "Harry Potter made it clear to me that he found my presence at Hermione Granger's home suspicious."

"And did Mr. Potter have any evidence to substantiate his feelings?"

"None whatsoever." He folded his hands together and stared cautiously at the Auror. "Have I done something wrong, sir?"

He shook his head. "Potter breached protocol during the interrogation to ask questions about you and Miss Granger specifically, and he didn't seem to have much explanation for it."

"Really?" Draco inquired, feigning surprise. "And what happened after he asked about me?"

"What happened? He got himself suspended from Dolohov's case," Prewett said with considerable annoyance.

He didn't know if that was a good or bad thing; suspension might jolt Potter back into reality and drop his ridiculous threats, or it might spur him further and just make it worse.

"Has Potter acted inappropriately or aggressively toward you in any way?"

"No," Draco replied slowly, after an extended pause. "Don't be too hard on him. When we were younger, I gave Harry good reason not to trust me, particularly with any muggle-born individuals—as you know. I'm sure that he just felt that he was doing what was necessary for his job."

"Well, you've obviously grown up a great deal more than Potter has," Prewett grumbled. "Thank you for your time. We won't be bothering you again."

By this point, Draco's blood was positively boiling. Now the _other _Aurors would be wondering about him, and he couldn't be sure if his 'gracious and reformed Healer' routine—even though it was the truth—would be enough to satisfy.

So, when he reached Granger's room and she was taking timid but surefooted steps in _full fucking clothing_—more specifically, full _sleeves_—it took every bit of him not to lose his rag. He would have been more patient and softer if he'd thought it was a mistake, but he knew exactly why she had chosen that attire.

"No." His voice was sharp, and she looked surprised before her features wrinkled into an annoyed frown.

"No _what_? Are you still ordering me on bed rest so that I can expire from boredom?"

He walked up to her and tugged the edge of her sleeve. "No to _this_. Are you serious, Granger?"

"Now I'm not allowed to wear my _clothes_, either?" Hermione demanded, wrenching her arm away. "I don't know why you're being so unreasonable!"

"I'm _not_ being unreasonable—" he snapped, grabbing at her wrist despite her evasion, "—hold _still_, Granger! You can't wear long sleeves when you have an _IV _in your arm, it's going to move it around under your skin and it makes it impossible for the staff to get at quickly if they need to."

She looked down at his hand—the one that held her—and she huffed in annoyance. "Well, I didn't want to wear a hospital gown anymore, and all of my shirts are long-sleeved—_hey!" _

He had tapped his wand near her shoulder and the sleeves instantly shortened to t-shirt length. "There. Problem solved. Now—"

"The problem is _not _solved!" she shouted, nearly jumping back when she twisted her arm away. "I liked my shirt the way it was—"

"And I told you that it's unsafe the way it was," he replied in an almost mockingly calm voice. "If you ask me, _you're _the one being unreasonable. Unless you have an alternative."

She narrowed her eyes hatefully at him. "I just want to wear my regular clothes."

"Your regular clothes aren't going to get rid of those scars, Hermione."

Her eyes darkened dangerously. "You think that because you're this great Healer, you have some right to just nose your way into my life like you know something about it, like you _care _about who I am or what's happened—"

"Of course I _care_, you can't just keep hiding from your—"

"I am not _hiding _from anything, Draco Malfoy, I am making a choice to avoid painful reminders of things that don't matter anymore!"

"That _is_ hiding!" he said sternly. "You clearly haven't dealt with your past, and you're letting it control your life because you can't bear to think about it!"

Hermione was leaning against the wall for support now. "I fail to see how _any _of this is your business. It has nothing to do with what you're supposed to be treating me for."

"Wrong again," Draco replied matter-of-factly. "The Aurors interrogated Dolohov."

She stole a glance at him, but plodded forward stubbornly, slow as a turtle on her small socked feet. "Yes, _and_?" she asked, trying but failing not to sound anxious.

"He didn't do this to you, Granger."

She stopped suddenly and clutched her stomach as if she was going to be sick, but she wouldn't look at him. "Wh—what do you mean?"

"I mean we still have no idea what's caused your body to suddenly go berserk," he answered bluntly. "And that means that my only method of getting information about this thing is by going through your memories—your _past, _Hermione."

She whipped her head around so quickly that her neck might have snapped. "Why in the _hell _would it mean that?" she shrieked.

"Because I have no idea where to start in treating you," Draco replied firmly. "If I can't treat you, you stay in here, you refuse treatment, or you take the full course of _vito mutato. _If you let me look at your memories—the episodes of pain you've experienced, and the events leading up to them—I might be able to pinpoint where they started, or at least glean a pattern from it."

Hermione's breathing had become ragged, and her tone was angry, but her eyes spelled fear. "You've taken my freedom _and _my magic."

"Yes," he said quietly.

"But…" she swallowed heavily. "They're _mine. _My memories—they're private!"

"I'm sorry, Granger. But I need to see them and I need to see them soon. If you're not willing to cooperate, I'm turning your case to another Healer." It was an empty threat, but if he gave her any time to make a decision, she would inevitably get lost in her own anguish.

"You haven't changed," Hermione murmured in disbelief. "You're just as cruel and unfeeling as you've always been."

He felt his jaw tighten. "Shall I take that as a yes, then?"

"I don't have a _choice_, do I?!" she screamed, tears suddenly dripping down her cheeks.

"You always have a choice." _Gods, have I always sounded like a pathetic whelp?_

"_GET OUT!_"

The hatred in her voice left no room for argument, and he skittered back into the hallway, oddly shaken by the exchange.

He wasn't cruel. What else was he supposed to have done? _Lie _to her? Let her pretend things were alright for a week before shattering her all over again? He was being blunt, which was what a Healer was supposed to be.

Or maybe it was just a desperate attempt to throw up some barrier between him and Granger before it was too late. She infuriated him, and she was making him foul up left right and center. He couldn't _stand _when she gave him that damn look, that look of helplessness, that look that told him, _this is all _your _fault, moron. _

Draco's palms were sweating.

_Who are you trying to fool, Malfoy? It's _already _too late._

* * *

_I hate him. _

Hermione repeated the mantra in her head over and over. It had taken her a full hour to calm down after his callous tirade. She had been so excited that she was able to walk—_actually _walk, even if it was slow—and then he'd just come in, arrogant and ruthless. If he could've just _told _her, rather than mentioning her scar and getting her angry to start with, she would have been able to keep herself together. But the way he just taunted her, then acted as if she was some emotional tart for being upset…

She sniffed and tugged the comb through a knot before wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Hermione had conned a medi-witch into bringing her a handheld mirror, and like Malfoy had warned, she was unprepared for what she saw. Her face was drawn and pale, her lips cracked, and there was a massive bruise spanning her forehead to her jaw from where she'd fallen a couple of days ago. And then there was her hair—a mass of curl and knots. Someone had taken care of it while she'd been unconscious—it would have been one enormous mat otherwise—but it was in serious need of brushing now. It was the only part of her appearance that she could _do _anything about, anyway.

Hermione had to hand it to her friends; none of them had even flinched when they saw her.

Her arms were beginning to tire by the time Malfoy showed up for his rounds. He was silent as he approached her bed, but the mirror didn't escape his notice. He picked it up, then glanced back at her.

She stared at him defiantly, daring him to admonish her for it. Just when she thought he was going to, Malfoy simply sighed and set the mirror down before sitting himself beside the bed.

He held his hand out expectantly, and at first she didn't get it—then he pointed to her near-limp hand that was feebly trying to drag the comb through her snarled locks. Reluctantly, she placed it in his palm. He scooted a bit closer and began working the comb into her hair.

He said nothing as he worked patiently, and so _gently. _

How could someone that gentle be so cruel?

The seconds ticked by, and she wondered how he could _possibly _have time to be doing this, and the nerve of him for showing up after what he'd done, and how in the _hell _she was going to be able to show him her memories, her most guarded secrets—

He stopped, and she suddenly realized that she was sobbing against his shoulder. He shifted slightly so that she could properly rest her head on him as she cried. Eventually, she felt his cheek press against her forehead, and his hand reluctantly, shakily, came to the small of her back and smoothed the fabric of her shirt comfortingly.

For the first time since waking up in St. Mungo's, Hermione felt like there was a possibility that she was going to be alright.


End file.
